BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 
IN  UNIFORM  STYLE 


MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR 

WHITELADIES 

THE  MAKERS  OP"  VENICE 


CHICAGO 
W.  B.   CONKEY  COMPANY 


BY 

MRS.  OLIPHANT 


CHICAGO 
W.  B.   CON  KEY  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  »8^t, 

BY 
UNITED  STATES  BOOK  COMPANY 

[Ail  rights  rtservtd.'l 


THE   MARRIAGE  OF   ELINOR. 


CHAPTER  I. 

JOHN  TATHAM,  barrister-at-law,  received  one  summer 
morning  as  be  sat  at  breakfast  the  following  letter.  It 
was  written  in  what  was  once  known  distinctively  as  a 
lady's  hand,  in  pointed  characters,  very  fine  and  deli- 
cate, and  was  to  this  effect  :  — 


JOHN,  Have  you  heard  from  Elinor  of  her 
new  prospects  and  intentions?  I  suppose  she  must 
have  written  to  you  on  the  subject.  Do  you  know  any- 
thing of  the  man  ?  .  .  .  You  know  how  hard  it  is  to 
convince  her  against  her  will  of  anything,  and  also  how 
poorly  gifted  I  am  with  the  power  of  convincing  any 
one.  Aud  I  don't  know  him,  therefore  can.  speak  with 
no  authority.  If  you  can  do  anything  to  clear  things 
up,  come  and  do  so.  I  am  very  anxious  and  more  than 
doubtful  ;  but  her  heart  seems  set  upon  it. 

"Your  affect. 

"M.  S.  D." 

Mr.  Tatham  was  a  well-built  and  vigorous  man  of 
five-aud-thirty,  with  health,  good  behaviour,  and  well- 
being  in  every  line  of  his  cheerful  countenance  and 
every  close  curl  of  his  brown  hair.  His  hair  was  very 
curly,  and  helped  to  give  him  the  cheerful  look  which 
was  one  of  his  chief  characteristics.  Nevertheless, 
when  these  innocent  seeming  words,  "  Do  you  know 
the  tuan  ?  "  which  was  more  certainly  demonstrative  of 


2137511   | 


6  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

certain  facts  than  had  those  facts  been  stated  in  the 
fullest  detail,  met  his  eye,  Mr.  Tathain  paused  and  laid 
down  the  letter  with  a  start.  His  ruddy  colour  paled 
for  the  moment,  and  he  felt  something  which  was  like 
the  push  or  poke  of  a  blunt  but  heavy  weapon  some- 
where in  the  regions  of  the  heart.  For  the  moment  he 
felt  that  he  could  not  read  any  more.  "Do  you  know 
the  man  ?  "  He  did  not  even  ask  what  man  in  the  mo- 
mentary sickness  of  his  heart.  Then  he  said  to  him- 
self, almost  angrily,  "  Well ! "  and  took  up  the  letter 
again  and  read  to  the  end. 

Well !  of  course  it  was  a  thing  that  he  knew  might 
happen  any  day,  and  which  he  had  expected  to  happen 
for  the  last  four  or  five  years.  It  was  nothing  to  him 
one  way  or  another.  Nothing  could  be  more  absurd 
than  that  a  hearty  and  strong  young  man  in  the  full 
tide  of  his  life  and  with  a  good  breakfast  before  him 
should  receive  a  shock  from  that  innocent  little  letter 
as  if  he  had  been  a  sentimental  woman.  But  the  fact 
is  that  he  pushed  his  plate  away  with  an  exclamation  of 
disgust  and  a  feeling  that  everything  was  bad  and  un- 
eatable. He  drank  his  tea,  though  that  also  became 
suddenly  bad  too,  full  of  tannin,  like  tea  that  has  stood 
too  long,  a  thing  about  which  John  was  very  particu- 
lar. He  had  been  half  an  hour  later  than  usual  this 
morning  consequent  on  having  been  an  hour  or  two 
Liter  than  usual  last  night.  These  things  have  their 
reward,  and  that  very  speedily  ;  but  as  for  the  letter, 
Avhat  could  that  have  to  do  with  the  bad  toasting  of  the 
bacon  and  the  tannin  in  the  tea  ?  "  Do  you  know  the 
man  ?  "  There  was  a  sort  of  covert  insult,  too,  in  the 
phraseology,  as  if  no  explanation  was  needed,  as  if  he 
must  know  by  instinct  what  she  meant — he  who  knew 
nothing  about  it,  who  did  not  know  there  was  a  man  at 
all! 

After  a  while  he  began  to  smile  rather  cynically  to 
himself.  He  had  got  up  from  the  breakfast  table, 
•where  everything  was  so  bad,  and  had  gone  to  look  out 
of  one  of  the  windows  of  his  pleasant  sitting-room.  It 
was  in  one  of  the  wider  ways  of  the  Temple,  and  looked 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  KLIXOIl.  1 

out  upon  various  houses  with  a  pleasant  misty  light 
upon  the  redness  of  their  old  brickwork,  and  a  stretch 
of  green  grass  and  trees,  which  were  scanty  in  foliage, 
yet  suited  very  well  with  the  bright  morning  sun, 
which  was  not  particularly  warm,  but  looked  as  if  it 
were  a  good  deal  for  effect  and  not  so  very  much  for 
use.  Tiiat  thought  floated  across  his  mind  with  others, 
and  was  of  the  same  cynical  complexion.  It  was  very 
well  for  the  sun  to  shine,  making  the  glistening  poplars 
and  plane-trees  glow,  and  warming  all  the  mellow 
ness  of  the  old  houses,  but  what  did  he  mean  by  it  ? 

rmth  to  speak  of,  only  a  fictitious  gleam — a  ; 
got  up  for  effect.  And  so  was  the  affectionateness  of 
woman — meaning  nothing,  only  an  effect  of  warmth 
and  geniality,  nothing  beyond  that.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  he  reminded  himself  after  a  while  that  he  had 
never  wanted  anything  beyond,  neither  asked  for  it,  nor 
wished  it.  He  had  no  desire  to  change  the  conditions 
of  his  life  :  women  never  rested  till  they  had  done  so, 
manufacturing  a  new  event,  whatever  it  might  be, 
pleased  even  when  they  were  not  pleased,  to  have  a 
novelty  to  announce.  That,  no  doubt,  was  the  state  of 
mind  in  which  the  lady  who  called  herself  his  aunt  was  : 
pleased  to  have  something  to  tell  him,  to  fire  off  her 
big  guns  in  his  face,  even  though  she  was  not  at  all 
pleased  with  the  event  itself.  Bat  John  Tatham.  on  the 
other  hand,  had  desired  nothing  to  happen  ;  things 
were  very  well  as  they  were.  He  liked  to  have  a  place 
where  he  could  run  down  from  Saturday  to  Monday 
whenever  he  pleased,  and  where  his  visit  was  always  a 
cheerful  event  for  the  womankind.  He  had  liked  to 
take  them  all  the  news,  t.o  carry  the  picture-papers, 
quite  a  load  ;  to  take  down  a  new  book  for  Elinor  ;  to 
taste  doubtfully  his  aunt's  wine,  and  tell  her  she  had 
better  let  him  choose  it  for  her.  It  was  a  very  pleasant 
state  of  affairs :  he  wanted  no  change  ;  not,  certainly, 
above  everything,  the  intrusion  of  a  stranger  whose 
very  existence  had  been  unknown  to  him  until  he  was 
thus  asked  cynically,  almost  brutally,  "  Do  you  know 
the  man  ?  * 


8  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

The  hour  came  when  John  had  to  assume  the  cos- 
tume of  that  order  of  workers  whom  a  persistent  popu- 
lar joke  nicknames  the  "  Devil's  Own  :  " — that  is,  he 
had  to  put  on  gown  and  wig-  and  go  off  to  the  courts, 
where  he  \vas  envied  of  all  the  briefless  as  a  man  who 
for  his  age  had  a  great  deal  to  do.  He  "devilled  "  for 
Mr.  Asstewt,  the  great  Chancery  man,  which  w;; 

excellent  beginning :  and  he  was  getting  into  a 
little  practice  of  his  own  which  was  not  to  be  sneezed 
at.  Bui  he  did  not  find  himself  in  a  satisfactory  frame 
of  mind  to-day.  He  found  himself  asking  the  judge, 
''Do  you  know  anything  of  the  man  V"  when  it  was  his 
special  business  so  to  bewilder  that  potentate  with 
elaborate  arguments  that  he  should  not  have  time  to 
consider  whether  he  had  ever  heard  of  the  particular 
man  before  him.  Thus  it  was  evident  that  Mr.  Tatham 
\\as  completely  //o/-x  <l<-  son  assiette,  as  the  French  say; 
upset  and  "  out  of  it/'  according  to  the  equally  vivid 
imagination  of  the  English  manufacturer  of  slang. 
John  Tatham  was  a  very  capable  young  lawyer  on 
ordinary  occasions,  and  it  was  all  the  more  remarkable 
that  he  should  have  been  so  confused  in  his  mind  to- 
day. 

"When  he  went  back  to  his  chambers  in  the  evening, 
which  was  not  until  it  was  time  to  dress  for  dinner,  he 
saw  a  bulky  letter  lying  on  his  table,  but  avoided  it  as 
if  it  had  been  an  overdue  bill.  He  was  engaged  to  dine 
out,  and  had  not  much  time  :  yet  all  the  way,  as  he 
drove  along  the  streets,  just  as  sunset  was  over  and  a 
subduing  shade  came  over  the  light,  and  that  half -holi- 
day look  that,  comes  with  evening — he  kept  thinking  of 
the  fat  letter  upon  his  table.  Do  you  know  anything 
of  the  man  ?  That  would  no  longer  be  the  refrain  of 
his  correspondent,  but  some  absurd  strain  of  devotion 
and  admiration  of  the  man  whom  John  knew  nothing 
of,  not  even  his  name.  He  wondered  as  he  went  along 
in  his  hansom,  and  even  between  the  courses  at  dinner, 
while  he  listened  with  a  smile,  but  without  hearing  a 
word,  to  what  the  lady  next  him  was  saying — what  she 
would  tell  him  about  this  man  ?  That  he  was  every- 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  9 

thing  that  was  delightful,  no  doubt ;  handsome,  of 
course ;  probably  clever  ;  and  that  she  was  fond  of  him, 
confound  the  fellow  !  Elinor !  to  think  that  she  should 
come  to  that — a  girl  like  her — to  tell  him,  as  if  she  was 
saying  that  she  had  caught  a  cold  or  received  a  present, 
that  she  was  in  love  with  a  man  !  Good  heavens  !  when 
one  had  thought  her  so  much  above  anything  of  that 
kind — a  woman,  above  all  women  that  ever  were. 

"Not  so  much  as  that,"  John  said  to  himself  as  he 
walked  home.  He  always  preferred  to  walk  home  in 
the  evening,  and  he  was  not  going  to  change  his  habit 
now  out  of  any  curiosity  about  Elinor's  letter.  Oh,  not 
so  much  as  that !  not  above  all  women,  or  better  than 
the  rest,  perhaps — but  different.  He  could  not  quite 
explain  to  himself  how,  except  that  he  had  always 
known  her  to  be  Elinor  and  not  another,  which  was  a 
quite  sufficient  explanation.  And  now  it  appeared  that 
she  was  not  different,  although  she  would  still  profess 
to  be  Elinor — a  curious  puzzle,  which  his  brain  in  its 
excited  state  was  scarcely  able  to  tackle.  His  thoughts 
got  somewhat  confused  and  broken  as  he  approached 
his  chambers.  He  was  so  near  the  letter  now — a  few 
minutes  and  he  would  no  longer  need  to  wonder  or 
speculate  about  it,  but  would  know  exactly  what  she 
said.  He  turned  and  stood  for  a  minute  or  so  at  the 
Temple  gates,  looking  out  upon  the  busy  Strand.  It 
was  still  as  lovely  as  a  summer  night  could  be  overhead, 
but  down  here  it  was — well,  it  was  London,  which  is 
another  thing.  The  usual  crowd  was  streaming  by, 
coming  into  bright  light  as  it  streamed  past  a  brilliant 
shop  window,  then  in  the  shade  for  another  moment, 
and  emerging  again.  The  faces  that  were  suddenly  lit 
up  as  they  passed — some  handsome  faces,  pale  in  the 
light ;  some  with  heads  hung  down,  either  in  bad  health 
or  bad  humour  ;  some  full  of  cares  and  troubles,  others 
airy  and  gay — caught  his  attention.  Did  any  of  them  all 
know  anything  of  this  man,  he  wondered — knowing  how 
absurd  a  question  it  was.  Had  any  of  them  written  to- 
day a  letter  full  of  explanations,  of  a  matter  that  could 
not  be  explained?  There  were  faces  with  far  more 


10  THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR. 

tragic  meaning   in  them   than  could   be  so  easil; 
plained  as  that — the  faces  of  men,  alas  !  and  women  too, 
who  were  going  to  destruction  as  fast  as  their  hurrying 
feet  could  carry  them  :  or  else  were  languidly  dri. 
no  one  knew  where — out  of  life  altogether,  out  of  all 
that  was  good  in  life.     John  Tat  ham  knew  this  very 
well  too,  and  had  it  in  him  to  do  anything  a  man  < 
to  stop  the  wanderers  in  their  downward  career.     But 
to-night  he  was  thinking  of  none  of  these  things.     He 
was  only  wondering  how  she  would  explain  it,  how  she 
could  explain  it,  what  she  would  say  ;  and  lingering  to 
prolong  his  suspense,  not  to  know  too  soon  what  it 

At  last,  however,  as  there  is  no  delay  but  must  come 
to  an  end  one  time  or  another,  he  found  himself  n' 
in  his  room,  in  his  smoking-coat  and  slippers,  divested 
of  his  stiff  collar — at  his  ease,  the  windows  open  upon 
the  quiet  of  the  Temple  Gardens,  a  little  fresh  air 
breathing  in.  He  had  taken  all  this  trouble  to  secure 
ease  for  himself,  to  put  off  a  little  the  reading  of  the 
letter.  Now  the  moment  had  come  when  it  would  be 
absurd  to  dela}r  any  longer.  It  was  so  natural  to  see 
her  familiar  handwriting — not  a  lady's  hand,  angular 
and  pointed,  like  her  mother's,  but  the  handwriting  of 
her  generation,  which  looks  as  if  it  were  full  of  charac- 
ter, until  one  perceives  that  it  *x  the  writing  of  the  gen- 
eration, and  all  the  girls  and  boys  write  much  the  same. 
He  took  time  for  this  reflection  still  as  he  tore  open  the 
envelope.  There  were  two  sheets  very  well  filled,  and 
written  in  at  the  corners,  so  that  no  available  spot  was 
lost.  "  My  dear  old  John,"  were  the  first  words  he 
saw.  He  put  down  the  letter  and  thought  over  the 
address.  "Well,  she  had  always  called  him  so.  He  was 
old  John  when  he  was  fourteen,  to  little  Elinor.  They 
had  always  known  each  other  like  that — like  brother 
and  sister.  But  not  particularly  like  brother  and  sis- 
ter— like  cousins  twice  removed,  which  is  a  more  inter- 
esting tie  in  some  particulars.  And  now  for  the  letter. 

'•  MY  DEAR  OLD  JOHN  :  I  want  to  tell  you  myself  of  a 
great  thing  that  has  happened  to  me — the  very  greatest 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR.  11 

thing  that  could  happen  in  cue's  life.  Oh,  John,  dear 
old  John,  I  feel  as  if  I  had  nobody  else  I  could  open 
my  heart  to  ;  for  mamma — well,  mamma  is  mamma,  a 
dear  mother  and  a  good  one  ;  but  you  know  she  has 
her  o\vn  ways  of  thinking " 

He  put  down  the  letter  again  with  a  rueful  little 
laugh.  "And  have  not  I  my  own  ways  of  thinking, 
too  f"  he  said  to  himself. 

'•Jack  dear,"  continued  the  letter,  "you  must  give 
me  your  sympathy,  all  your  sympathy.  You  never 
were  in  love,  I  suppose  (oh,  what  an  odious  way  that 
is  of  putting  it  !  but  it  spares  one's  feelings  a  little,  for 
even  in  writing  it  is  too  tremendous  a  thing  to  say 
quite  gravely  and  seriously,  as  one  fee-Is  it).  Dear 
John,  I  know  you  never  were  in  love,  or  you  would 
have  told  me  ;  but  still " 

"  Oh,"  he  said  to  himself,  with  the  merest  suspicion 
of  a  little  quiver  in  his  lip,  which  might,  of  course, 
have  been  a  laugh,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  might  have 
been  something  else,  "I  never  was — or  I  would  have 
told  her — That's  the  way  she  looks  at  it."  Then  he 
took  up  the  letter  again. 

"  Because — I  see  nothing  but  persecution  before  me. 
It  was  only  a  week  ago  that  it  happened,  and  we  wanted 
to  keep  it  quiet  for  a  time  ;  but  things  get  out  in  spite 
of  all  one  can  do — things  of  that  sort,  at  least.  And, 
oh,  dear  Jack,  fancy  !  I  have  got  three  letters  already, 
all  warning  me  against  him  ;  raking  up  trifling  things 
that  have  occurred  long  ago,  long  before  he  met  me, 
and  holding  them  up  before  me  like  scarecrows  —  tell- 
ing me  he  is  not  worthy  of  me,  and  that  I  will  be 
wretched  if  I  marry  him,  and  other  dreadful  lies  like 
that,  which  show  me  quite  plainly  that  they  neither 
know  him  nor  me,  and  that  they  haven't  eyes  to  see 
what  he  really  is,  nor  minds  to  understand.  But 
though  I  see  the  folly  of  it  and  the  wickedness  of  it, 
mamma  does  not.  She  is  ready  to  take  other  people's 


12  THE  MARRIAGE  OF   KLIN  OR. 

words  ;  indeed,  there  is  this  to  be  said  for  her,  that 
she  does  not  know  him  yet,  and  thei-efore  cannot  be 
expected  to  be  ready  to  take  his  own  word  before  all. 
Dear  Jack,  iny  heart  is  so  full,  and  I  have  so  much  to 
tell  you,  and  such  perfect  confidence  in  your  sympathy, 
and  also  in  your  insight  and  capacity  to  see  through 
all  the  lies  and  wicked  stories  which  I  foresee  are  going 
to  be  poured  upon  us  like  a  flood  that — I  don't  know 
how  to  begin,  I  have  so  many  things  to  say.  I  know 
it  is  the  heart  of  the  season,  and  that  you  are  asked  out 
every  night  in  the  week,  and  are  so  popular  every- 
where ;  but  if  you  could  but  come  down  from  Saturday 
to  Monday,  and  let  me  tell  you  everything  and  show 
you  his  picture,  and  read  you  parts  of  his  letters,  I 
know  you  would  see  how  false  and  wrong  it  all  is,  and 
help  me  to  face  it  out  with  all  those  horrid  people,  and 
to  bring  round  mamma.  You  know  her  dreadful  way 
of  never  giving  an  opinion,  but  just  saying  a  great  deal 
worse,  and  leaving  you  to  your  own  responsibility, 
which  nearly  drives  me  mad  even  in  little  things — so 
you  may  suppose  what  it  does  in  this.  Of  course,  she 
must  see  him,  which  is  all  I  want,  for  I  know  after  she 
has  had  a  half-hour's  conversation  with  him  that  she 
will  be  like  me  and  will  not  believe  a  word — not  one 
word.  Therefore,  Jack  dear,  come,  oh,  come  !  I  have 
always  turned  to  you  in  my  difficulties,  since  ever  I 
have  known  what  it  was  to  have  a  difficulty,  and  you 
have  done  everything  for  me.  I  never  remember  any 
trouble  I  ever  had  but  you  found  some  means  of  clear- 
ing it  away.  Therefore  my  whole  hope  is  in  you.  I 
know  it  is  hard  to  give  up  all  your  parties  and  things : 
but  it  would  only  be  two  nights,  after  all — Saturday 
and  Sunday.  Oh,  do  come,  do  come,  if  you  ever  cared 
the  least  little  bit  for  your  poor  cousin  !  Come,  oh, 
come,  dear  old  John  ! 

"  Your  affect. 


"  Is  that  all  ?  "  he  said  to  himself ;  but  it  was  not  all, 
for  there  followed  a  postscript  all  about  the  gifts  and 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  13 

graces  of  the  unknown  lover,  and  how  he  was  the  victim 
of  circumstances,  and  how,  while  other  men  might  steai 
the  horse,  he  dared  not  look  over  the  waD,  and  other 
convincing  pleadings  such  as  these,  till  John's  head  be- 
gan to  go  round.  When  he  had  got  through  this  post- 
script John  Tatham  folded  the  letter  and  put  it  away. 
He  had  a  smile  on  his  face,  but  he  had  the  air  of  a  man 
who  had  been  beaten  about  the  head  and  was  confused 
with  the  hurry  and  storm  of  the  blows.  She  had  al- 
ways turned  to  him  in  all  her  difficulties,  that  was 
true  :  and  he  had  always  stood  by  her,  and  often,  in 
the  freemasonry  of  youth,  had  thought  her  right  and 
vindicated  her  capacity  to  judge  for  herself.  He  had 
been  called  often  on  this  errand,  and  he  had  never  re- 
fused to  obey.  For  Elinor  was  very  wilful,  she  had 
always  been  wilful — "  a  rosebud  set  about  with  wilful 
thorns,  But  sweet  as  English  air  could  make  her,  she." 
He  had-  come  to  her  aid  many  a  time.  But  he  had 
never  thought  to  be  called  upon  by  her  in  such  a  way 
as  this.  He  folded  the  letter  up  carefully  and  put  it  in 
a  drawer.  Usually  when  he  had  a  letter  from  Elinor 
he  put  it  into  his  pocket,  for  the  satisfaction  of  read- 
ing it  over  again  :  for  she  had  a  fantastic  way  of  writ- 
ing, adding  little  postscripts  which  escaped  the  eye  at 
first,  and  which  it  was  pleasant  to  find  out  afterwards. 
But  with  this  letter  he  did  not  do  so.  He  put  it  in  a 
drawer  of  his  writing-table,  so  that  he  might  find  it 
again  when  necessary,  but  he  did  not  put  it  in  his 
breast  pocket  And  then  he  sat  for  some  time  doing 
nothing,  looking  before  him,  with  his  legs  stretched 
out  and  his  hand  beating  a  little  tattoo  upon  the  table. 
"  Well :  well  ?  well !  "  That  was  about  what  he  said 
to  himself,  but  it  meant  a  great  deal :  it  meant  a  vague 
but  great  disappointment,  a  sort  of  blank  and  vacuum 
expressed  by  the  first  of  these  words — and  then  it 
meant  a  question  of  great  importance  and  many  divis- 
ions. How  could  it  ever  have  come  to  anything?  Am 
I  a  man  to  marry  ?  What  could  I  have  done,  just  get- 
ting into  practice,  just  getting  a  few  pounds  to  spend 
for  myself  ?  And  then  came  the  conclusion.  Sine*  1 


14  TUB  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

can't  do  anything  else  for  her ;  since  she's  done  it  for 
herself — shall  I  be  a  beast  and  not  help  her,  because  it 
puts  my  own  nose  out  of  joint?  Not  a  bit  of  it !  The 
reader  must  remember  that  in  venturing  to  reflect  a 
young  man's  sentiments  a  dignified  style  is  scarce- 
ly possible  ;  they  express  themselves  sometimes  with 
much  force  in  their  private  moments,  but  not  as  Dr. 
Johnson  would  have  approved,  or  with  any  sense  of 
elegance  ;  and  one  must  try  to  be  truthful  to  nature. 
He  knew  very  well  that  Elinor  was  not  responsible  for 
his  disappointment,  and  even  he  was  aware  that  if 
she  had  been  so  foolish  as  to  fix  her  hopes  upon  him, 
it  would  probably  have  been  she  who  would  have  been 
disappointed,  and  left  in  the  lurch.  But  still — 

John  had  gone  through  an  interminable  amount  of 
thinking,  and  a  good  deal  of  soda-water  (with  or  with- 
out, how  should  I  know,  some  other  moderate  ingredi- 
ent), and  a  cigar  or  two — not  to  speak  of  certain  hours 
when  he  ought  to  have  been  in  bed  to  keep  his  head 
clear  for  the  cases  of  to-morrow  :  when  it  suddenly 
flashed  upon  him  all  at  once  that  he  was  not  a  step  fur- 
ther on  than  when  he  had  received  Mrs.  Dennistoun's 
letter  in  the  morning,  for  Elinor,  though  she  had  said 
so  much  about  him,  had  given  no  indication  who  her 
lover  was.  Who  was  the  man  ? 


CHAPTER  II 

IT  was  a  blustering  afternoon  when  John,  with  his  bag 
in  his  hand,  set  out  from  the  station  at  Hurrymere  for 
Mrs.  Dennistoun's  cottage.  Why  that  station  should 
have  had  "mere  "  in  its  name  I  have  never  been  ab^  to 
divine,  for  there  is  no  water  to  be  seen  for  miles,  scarcely 
so  much  us  ;i  diirkpond  :  but,  perhaps,  there  are  two 
meanings  to  the  words.  It  was  a  steep  walk  up  a  sue- 
•n  of  slopes,  and  the  name  of  the  one  upon  which 
the  cottage  stood  was  Windykill,  not  an  encouraging 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR.  15 

title  on  such  a  day,  but  true  enough  to  the  character  of 
the  place.  The  cottage  lay,  however,  at  the  head  of  a 
combe  or  shelving  irregular  valley,  just  sheltered  from 
the  winds  on  a  little  platform  of  its  own,  and  command- 
ing a  view  which  was  delightful  in  its  long  sweeping 
distance,  and  varied  enough  to  be  called  picturesque, 
especially  by  those  who  were  familiar  with  nothing 
higher  than  the  swelling  slopes  of  the  Surrey  hills.  It 
was  wild,  little  cultivated,  save  in  the  emerald  green  of 
the  bottom,  a  few  fields  which  lay  where  a  stream  ought 
to  have  been.  Nowadays  there  are  red-roof  ed  houses 
peeping  out  at  every  corner,  but  at  that  period  fashion 
had  not  even  heard  of  Hurrymere,  and,  save  for  a  farm- 
house or  two,  a  village  alehouse  and  posting-house  at  a 
corner  of  the  high-road,  and  one  or  two  great  houses 
within  the  circuit  of  sis  or  seven  miles,  retired  within 
their  trees  and  parks,  there  were  few  habitations.  Mrs. 
Pennistoun's  cottage  was  red-roofed  like  the  rest,  but 
much  subdued  by  lichens,  and  its  walls  were  covered  by 
climbing  plants,  so  that  it  struck  no  bold  note  upon  the 
wild  landscape,  yet  was  visible  afar  off  in  glimpses,  from 
the  much-winding  road,  for  a  mile  or  two  before  it  could 
be  come  at.  There  was,  indeed,  a  nearer  way,  necessi- 
tating a  sharp  scramble,  but  when  John  came  just  hi 
sight  of  the  house  his  heart  failed  him  a  little,  and,  not- 
withstanding that  his  bag  had  come  to  feel  very  heavy 
by  this  time,  he  delibei*ately  chose  the  longer  round  to 
gain  a  little  time— as  we  all  do  sometimes,  when  we  are 
most  anxious  to  be  at  our  journey's  end,  and  hear  what 
has  to  be  told  us.  It  looked  very  peaceful  seated  in 
that  fold  of  the  hill,  no  tossing  of  trees  about  it,  though 
a  little  higher  up  the  slim  oaks  and  beeches  of  the  copse 
were  flinging  themselves  about  against  the  grey  sky  in 
a  kind  of  agonised  appeal.  John  liked  the  sound  of  the 
wind  sweeping  over  the  hills,  rending  the  trees,  and 
filling  the  horizon  as  with  a  crowd  of  shadows  in  pain, 
twisting  and  bending  with  every  fresh  sweep  of  the 
breeze.  Sometimes  such  sounds  and  sights  give  a  relief 
to  the  mind.  He  liked  it  better  than  if  all  had  been 
undisturbed,  lying  in  afternoon  quiet  as  might  have  been 


16  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

expected  at  the  crown  of  the  year — but  the  winds  had 
always  to  be  taken  into  account  at  Windyhill. 

When  he  came  in  sight  of  the  gate,  John  was  aware 
of  some  one  waiting  for  him,  walking  up  and  down  the 
sandy  road  into  which  it  opened.  Her  face  was  turned 
the  other  way,  and  she  evidently  looked  for  him  by  way 
of  the  combe,  the  scrambling  steep  road  which  he  had 
avoided  in  despite :  for  why  should  he  scramble  and 
make  himself  hot  in  order  to  hear  ten  minutes  sooner 
what  he  did  not  wish  to  hear  at  all  ?  She  turned  round 
suddenly  as  he  knocked  his  foot  against  a  stone  upon 
the  rough,  but  otherwise  noiseless  road,  presenting  a 
countenance  flushed  with  sudden  relief  and  pleasure  to 
John's  remorseful  eye.  "  Oh,  there  you  are  ! "  she  said  ; 
"I  am  so  glad.  I  thought  you  could  not  be  coming. 
You  might  have  been  here  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago  by 
the  short  road." 

"I  did  not  think  there  was  any  hurry,"  said  John, 
ungraciously.  "  The  wind  is  enough  to  carry  one 
off  one's  feet ;  though,  to  be  sure,  it's  quiet  enough 
here." 

"  It's  always  quiet  here,"  she  said,  reading  his  face 
with  her  eyes  after  the  manner  of  women,  and  wonder- 
ing what  the  harassed  look  meant  that  was  so  unusual 
in  John's  cheerful  face.  She  jumped  at  the  idea  that 
he  was  tired,  that  his  bag  was  heavy,  that  he  had  been 
beaten  about  by  the  wind  till  he  had  lost  his  temper, 
always  a  possible  thing  to  happen  to  a  man.  Elinor 
flung  herself  upon  the  bag  and  tried  to  take  possession 
of  it.  "Why  didn't  you  get  a  boy  at  the  station  to 
carry  it  ?  Let  me  carry  it,"  she  said. 

"That  is  so  likely,"  said  John,  with  a  hard  laugh, 
shifting  it  to  his  other  hand. 

Elinor  caught  his  arm  with  both  her  hands,  and  looked 
up  with  wistful  eyes  into  his  face.  "  Oh,  John,  you  are 
angry,"  she  said. 

"Nonsense.  I  am  tired,  buffeting  about  with  this 
wind."  Here  the  gardener  and  man-of-all-work  about 
the  cottage  came  up  and  took  the  bag,  which  John  parted 
with  with  angry  reluctance,  as  if  it  had  been  a  sort  of 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  KLIXOR.  17 

weapon  of  offence.  After  it  was  gone  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  walk  quietly  to  the  house  through  the  flowers 
with  that  girl  hanging  on  his  arm,  begging  a  hundred 
pardons  with  her  eyes.  The  folly  of  it !  as  if  she  had 
not  a  right  to  do  as  she  pleased,  or  he  would  try  to  pre- 
vent her  ;  but  finally,  the  soft,  silent  apology  of  that 
clinging,  and  the  look  full  of  petitions  touched  his  surly 
heart.  "  Well — Nelly,"  he  said,  with  involuntary  soften- 
ing. 

"  Oh,  if  you  call  me  that  I  am  not  afraid  !  "  she  cried, 
with  an  instant  upleaping  of  pleasure  and  confidence  in 
her  changeable  face,  which  (John  tried  to  say  to  himself) 
was  not  really  pretty  at  all,  only  so  full  of  expression, 
changing  with  every  breath  of  feeling.  The  eyes,  which 
had  only  been  brown  a  moment  before,  leaped  up  into 
globes  of  light,  yet  not  too  dazzling,  with  some  liquid 
medium  to  soften  their  shining.  Even  though  you  know 
that  a  girl  is  in  love  with  another  man,  that  she  thinks 
of  you  no  more  than  of  the  old  gardener  who  has  just 
hobbled  round  the  corner,  it  is  pleasant  to  be  able  to 
change  the  whole  aspect  of  affairs  to  her  and  make  her 
light  up  like  that,  solely  by  a  little  unwilling  softening 
of  your  gruff  anil  sui'lv  tone. 

'•You  know,  John,"  she  said,  holding  his  arm  tight 
with  her  two  hands,  "  that  nobody  ever  calls  me  Nelly — 
except  you." 

"  Possibly  I  shall  call  you  Nelly  no  longer.  Why  ? 
Why,  bo.'-iuse  that  fellow  will  object." 

"  That-fellow  !  Oh,  he .' "  Elinor's  face  grew  very  red 
all  over,  from  the  chin,  which  almost  touched  John's 
arm,  to  the  forehead,  bent  back  a  little  over  those  eyes 
suffused  with  light  which  were  intent  upon  all  the 
changes  of  John's  face.  This  one  was,  like  the  land- 
scape, swept  by  all  the  vicissitudes  of  sun  and  shade. 
It  w.-is  radiant  now  with  the  unexpected  splendour  of  the 
sudden  gleam. 

"  Oh,  John,  John,  I  have  so  much  to  say  to  you  !  He 
will  object  to  nothing.  He  knows  very  well  you  are 
like  my  brother — almost  more  than  my  brother — for  you 
could  help  it,  John.  You  almost  chose  me  for  your 


18  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

friend,  which  a  brother  would  not.  He  says,  'Get  him 
to  be  our  friend  and  all  will  be  well ! ' 

He  had  not  said  this,  but  Elinor  had  said  it  to  him, 
and  he  had  assented,  which  was  almost  the  same — in 
the  way  of  reckoning  of  a  girl,  at  least. 

"He  is  very  kind,  I  am  sure,"  said  John,  gulping 
down  something  which  had  almost  made  him  throw  off 
Elinor's  arm,  and  fling  away  from  her  in  indignation. 

Her  brother !  !  But  there  was  no  use  making  any 

row,  he  said  to  himself.  If  anything  were  to  be  done 
for  her  he  must  put  up  with  all  that.  There  had  sud- 
denly corne  upon  John,  he  knew  not  how,  as  he  scanned 
her  anxious  face,  a  conviction  that  the  man  was  a  scamp, 
from  whom  at  all  hazards  she  should  be  free. 

Said  Elinor,  unsuspecting,  "That  is  just  what  he  is, 
John  !  I  knew  you  would  divine  his  character  at  once. 
You  can't  think  how  kind  he  is — kind  to  everybody. 
He  never  judges  anyone,  or  throws  a  stone,  or  makes  an 
insinuation."  ("  Probably  because  he  knows  he  cannot 
bear  investigation  himself,"  John  said,  in  his  heart.) 
"That  was  the  thing  that  took  my  heart  first.  Every- 
body is  so  censorious — always  something  to  say  against 
their  neighbours  ;  he,  never  a  word." 

"That's  a  very  good  quality,"  said  John,  reluctantly, 
"  if  it  doesn't  mean  confounding  good  with  bad,  and 
thinking  nothing  matters." 

Elinor  gave  him  a  grieved,  reproachful  look,  and 
loosened  the  clasping  of  her  hands.  "  It  is  not  like  you 
to  imagine  that,  John  !  " 

"  Well,  what  is  a  man  to  say  ?  Don't  you  see,  if  you 
do  nothing  but  blow  his  trumpet,  the  only  thing  left  for 
me  to  do  is  to  insinuate  something  against  him  ?  I 
don't  know  the  man  from  Adam.  He  may  be  an  angel, 
for  anything  I  can  say." 

"No ;  I  do  not  pretend  he  is  that,"  said  Elinor,  with 
impartiality.  "  He  has  his  faults,  like  others,  but  they 
are  nice  faults.  He  doesn't  know  how  to  take  care  of 
his  money  (but  he  hasn't  got  very  much,  which  makes 
it  the  less  matter),  and  he  is  sometimes  taken  in  about 
his  friends.  Anybody  almost  that  appeals  to  his  kind  • 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  19 

ness  is  treated  like  a  friend,  which  makes  precise  people 

think but,  of  course,  I  don't  share  that  opinion  in 

the  very  least." 

("A  very  wasteful  beggar,  with  a  disreputable  set," 
was  John's  practical  comment  within  himself  upon  this 
speech.) 

"  And  he  doesn't  know  how  to  curiy  favour  with  peo- 
ple who  can  help  him  on  ;  so  that  though  he  has  been 
for  years  promised  something,  it  never  turns  up.  Oh, 
I  know  his  faults  very  well  indeed,"  said  Elinor  ;  "  but 
a  woman  can  do  so  much  to  make  \ip  for  faults  like  that. 
We're  naturally  saving,  you  know,  and  we  always  keep 
those  unnecessary  friends  that  were  made  before  our 
time  at  a  distance  ;  and  it's  part  of  our  nature  to  coax 
a  patron — that  is  what  Mariamue  says." 

"Mariamne?"  said  John. 

"  His  sister,  who  first  introduced  him  to  me  ;  and 
I  am  very  fond  of  her,  so  you  need  not  say  anything 
against  her,  John.  I  know  she  is — fashionable,  but 
that's  no  harm." 

"Mariamne,"  he  repeated;  "it  is  a  very  uncommon 
name.  You  don't  mean  Lady  Mariamne  Prestwich,  do 

you?  and  not — not Eliuor!  not  Phil  Compton,  for 

goodness'  sake  ?  Don't  tell  me  he's  the  man  ?  " 

Elinor's  hands  dropped  from  his  arm.  She  drew  her- 
self up  until  she  seemed  to  tower  over  him.  "And  why 
should  I  say  it  is  not  Mr.  Compton,"  she  asked,  with  a 
scarlet  flush  of  anger,  so  different  from  that  rosy  red  of 
love  and  happiness,  covering  her  face. 

"  Phil  Compton !  the  efts-Honourable  Phil !  Why, 
Elinor !  you  cannot  mean  it !  you  must  not  mean  it !  " 
he  cried. 

Elinor  said  not  a  word.  She  turned  from  him  with 
a  look  of  pathetic  reproach  but  with  the  air  of  a  queen, 
and  walked  into  the  house,  he  following  in  a  ferment  of 
wrath  and  trouble,  yet  humbled  and  miserable  more 
than  words  could  say.  Oh,  the  flowery,  peaceful  house  ! 
jasmine  and  rose  overleaping  each  other  upon  the  porch, 
honeysuckle  scenting  the  air,  all  manner  of  feminine 
contrivances  to  continue  the  greenness  and  the  sweet- 


-JO  THE  MARiUACK  OF 

ness  into  the  little  bright  hall,  into  the  open  drawing- 
room,  where  flowers  stood  on  every  table  amid  the  hun- 
dred pretty  trifles  of  a  woman's  house.  There  was  no 
one  in  this  room  where  she  led  him,  and  then  turned 
round  confronting  him,  taller  than  he  had  ever  seen 
her  before,  pale,  with  her  nostrils  dilating  and  her  lips 
trembling.  "I  never  thought  it  possible  that  you  of 
all  people  in  the  world,  you,  John— my  stand-by  since 

ever  I  was  a  baby — my Oh  !  what  a  horrid  thing 

it  is  to  be  a  woman,"  cried  Elinor,  stamping  her  foot, 
"  to  be  ready  to  cry  for  everything ! — you,  John  !  that  I 
always  put  my  trust  in — that  you  should  turn  against 
me— and  at  the  very  first  word !  " 

"  Elinor,"  he  said,  "  my  dear  girl !  not  against  you, 
not  against  you,  for  all  the  world  !  " 

"And  what  is  me?"  she  said,  with  that  sudden  turn- 
ing of  the  tables  and  high  scorn  of  her  previous  argu- 
ment which  is  common  with  women  ;  "do  I  care  what 
you  do  to  me  ?  Oh,  nothing,  nothing !  I  am  of  no  ac- 
count, you  can  trample  me  down  under  your  feet  if  you 
like.  But  what  I  will  not  bear,"  she  said,  clenching  her 
hands,  "  is  injustice  to  him  :  that  I  will  not  bear,  neither 
from  you,  Cousin  John,  who  are  only  my  distant  cousin, 
after  all,  and  have  no  right  to  thrust  your  advice  upon 
me — or  from  any  one  in  the  world." 

"  What  you  say  is  quite  true,  Elinor,  I  am  only  a  dis- 
tant cousin — after  all :  but — 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  she  cried,  flying  to  him,  seizing  once 
more  his  arm  with  her  clinging  hands,  "  I  did  not  mean 
that — you  know  I  did  not  mean  that,  my  more  than 
brother,  my  good,  good  John,  whom  I  have  trusted  all 
my  life !  " 

And  then  the  poor  girl  broke  out  into  passionate 
weeping  with  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  as  she  might 
have  leant  upon  the  handy  trunk  of  a  tree,  or  on  the 
nearest  door  or  window,  as  John  Tatham  said  in  his 
heart.  He  soothed  her  as  best  he  could,  and  put  her 
in  a  chair  and  stood  with  his  hand  upon  the  back  of  it, 
looking  down  upon  her  as  the  fit  of  crying  wore  itself 
out.  Poor  little  girl !  he  had  seen  her  cry  often  enough 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF   ELIXOR.  21 

before.  A  girl  cries  for  anything,  for  a  thorn  in  her 
finger,  for  a  twist  of  her  foot.  He  had  seen  her  cry  and 
laugh,  and  dash  the  tears  out  of  her  eyes  on  such  occa- 
sions, oh  !  often  and  often  :  there  was  that  time  when 
lie  rushed  out  of  the  bushes  unexpectedly  and  frightened 
her  pony,  and  she  fell  among  the  grass  and  vowed,  sob- 
bing and  laughing,  it  was  her  fault !  and  once  when  she 
:  little  tot,  not  old  enough  for  boy's  play,  when  she 
fell  upon  her  little  nose  and  cut  it  and  disfigured  her- 
self, and  held  up  that  wounded  little  knob  of  a  feature 
to  have  it  kissed  and  made  well.  Oh,  why  did  he  think 
of  that  now  !  the  little  thing  all  trust  and  simple  con- 
fidence !  There  was  that  time  too  when  she  jumped  up 
to  get  a  gun  and  shoot  the  tramps  who  had  hurt  some- 
body, if  John  would  but  give  her  his  hand  !  These 
things  came  rushing  into  his  mind  as  he  stood  watch- 
ing Elinor  cry,  with  his  hand  upon  the  back  of  her 
chair. 

She  wanted  John's  hand  now  when  she  was  going 
forth  to  far  greater  dangers.  Oh,  poor  little  Nelly  ! 
poor  little  thing  !  but  he  could  not  put  her  oil  his 
shoulder  and  carry  her  out  to  face  the  foe  now. 

She  jumped  up  suddenly  while  he  was  thinking,  with 
the  tears  still  wet  upon  her  cheeks,  but  the  paroxysm 
mastered,  and  the  light  of  her  eyes  coming  out  doubly 
bright  like  the  sun  from  the  clouds.  "  "We  poor  women," 
she  said  with  a  laugh,  "  are  so  badly  off,  we  are  so  handi- 
capped, as  you  call  it  !  We  can't  help  crying  like  fools  ! 
We  can't  help  caring  for  what  other  people  thiuk,  trying 
to  conciliate  and  bring  them  round  to  approve  us — 
when  we  ought  to  stand  by  our  own  conscience  and 
judgment,  and  sense  of  what  is  right,  like  independent 
beings." 

"If  that  means  taking  your  own  way,  Elinor,  what- 
ever any  one  may  say  to  you,  I  think  Avomen  do  it  at 
least  as  much  as  men." 

"  No,  it  does  not  mean  taking  our  own  way, "she  cried, 
"and  if  you  do  not  understand  any  better  than  that, 

why  should  I But  you  do  understand  better.  John," 

•he  said,  her  countenance  again  softening  :  "you  kno\r 


22  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

I  want,  above  everything  in  the  world,  that  you  should 
approve  of  me  and  see  that  I  am  right.  That  is  what  I 
want !  I  will  do  what  I  think  right ;  but,  oh,  if  I  could 
only  have  you  with  me  in  doing  it,  and  know  that  you 
saw  with  me  that  it  was  the  best,  the  only  thing  to  do ! 
Happiness  lies  in  that,  not  in  having  one's  own  way." 

"My  dear  Elinor,"  he  said,  "isn't  that  asking  a  great 
deal  ?  To  prevent  you  from  doing  what  you  think  right 
is  in  nobody's  power.  You  are  of  age,  and  I  am  sure 
my  aunt  will  force  nothing ;  but  how  can  we  change 
our  opinions,  our  convictions,  our  entire  points  of  view  ? 
There  is  nobody  in  the  world  I  would  do  so  much  for  as 
you,  Elinor  :  but  I  cannot  do  that,  even  for  you." 

The  hot  tears  were  dried  from  her  cheeks,  the  passion 
was  over.  She  looked  at  him,  her  efforts  to  gain  him  at 
an  end,  on  the  equal  footing  of  an  independent  individ- 
ual agreeing  to  differ,  and  as  strong  in  her  own  view  as 
he  could  be. 

"  There  is  one  thing  you  can  do  for  me,"  she  said. 
"  Mamma  knows  nothing  about — fashionable  gossip. 
She  is  not  acquainted  with  the  wicked  things  that  are 
said.  If  she  disapproves  it  is  only  because —  Oh,  I 
suppose  because  one's  mother  always  disapproves  a 
thing  that  is  done  without  her,  that  she  has  no  hand  in, 
what  she  calls  pledging  one's  self  to  a  stranger,  and  not 
knowing  his  antecedents,  his  circumstances,  and  so 
forth !  But  she  hasn't  any  definite  ground  for  it  as 
you — think  you  have,  judging  in  the  uncharitable  way 
of  the  world — not  remembering  that  if  we  love  one 
another  the  more  there  is  against  him  the  more  need 
he  has  of  me !  But  all  I  have  to  ask  of  you,  John,  is 
not  to  prejudice  my  mother.  I  know  you  can  do  it  if 
you  please — a  hint  would  be  enough,  an  uncertain 
word,  even  hesitating  when  you  answer  a  question — 
that  would  be  quite  enough  !  John,  if  you  put  things 
into  her  head " 

"  You  ask  most  extraordinary  things  of  me,"  said  John, 
turning  to  bay.  "  To  tell  her  lies  about  a  man  whom 
everybody  knows— to  pretend  I  think  one  thing  when  I 
think  quite  another,  Not  to  say  that  my  duty  is  to  in- 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  23 

form  her  exactly  what  things  are  said,  so  that  she  may 
judge  for  herself,  not  let  her  go  forth  in  ignorance — 
that  is  my  plain  duty,  Elinor." 

"But  you  won't  do  it;  oh,  you  won't  do  it!"  she 
said.  "Oh,  John,  for  the  sake  of  all  the  time  that  you 
have  been  so  good  to  Nelly — your  own  little  Nelly,  no- 
body else's !  Remember  that  I  and  everybody  who 
loves  him  know  these  stories  to  be  lies — and  don't, 
don't  put  things  into  my  mother's  head !  Let  her 
judge  for  herself — don't,  don't  prejudice  her,  John. 
It  can  be  no  one's  duty  to  repeat  malicious  stories 
when  there  is  no  possibility  of  proving  or  disproving 

them.  Don't  make  her  think Oh,  mamma !  we 

couldn't  think  where  you  had  gone  to.  Yes,  here  is 
John." 

"So  I  perceive,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun.  It  was  get- 
ting towards  evening,  and  the  room  was  not  very  light. 
She  could  not  distinguish  their  looks  or  the  agitation 
that  scarcely  could  have  been  hidden  but  for  the  dusk. 
"You  seem  to  have  been  having  a  very  animated  con- 
versation. I  heard  your  voices  all  along  the  garden 
walk.  Liet  me  have  the  benefit  of  it,  if  there  is  anything 
to  tell." 

'•  You  know  well  enough,  mamma,  what  we  must  have 
been  talking  about,"  said  Elinor,  turning  half  angrily 
away. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  the  mother,  "I  ought  to  have 
known.  There  is  nothing  so  interesting  as  that  sort  of 
thing.  I  thought,  however,  you  would  probably  have 
put  it  off  a  little,  Elinor." 

"  Put  it  off  a  little — when  it  is  the  thing  that  concerns 
us  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world  !  " 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  with  a  sigh. 
"  Did  you  walk  all  the  way,  John  ?  I  meant  to  have 
sent  the  pony-cart  for  you,  but  the  man  was  too  late. 
It  is  a  nice  evening  though,  and  coming  out  of  town  it 
is  a  good  thing  for  you  to  have  a  good  walk," 

"Yes,  I  like  it  more  than  anything/'  said  John,  "but 
the  evening  ia  not  eo  very  fine.  The  wind  if  high,  aud 
I  shouldn't  wonder  if  we  had  rain." 


24-  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

"The  wind  is  always  high  here,"  said  Mrs.  Deunis- 
toun.  "  We  don't  have  our  view  for  nothing  ;  but  the 
sky  is  quite  clear  in  the  west,  and  all  the  clouds  blow- 
ing away.  I  don!t  think  we  shall  have  more  than  a 
shower." 

Elinor  stood  listening  to  this  talk  with  restrained  im- 
patience, as  if  waiting  for  the  moment  when  they 
should  come  to  something  worth  talking  about.  Then 
she  gave  herself  a  sort  of  shake — half  weary,  half  in- 
dignant— and  left  the  room.  There  was  a  moment's 
silence,  until  her  quick  step  was  heard  going  to  the 
other  end  of  the  house  and  upstairs,  and  the  shutting 
of  a  door. 

"  Oh,  John,  I  arn  very  uneasy,  very  uneasy,"  said 
Mrs.  Dennistoun.  "I  scarcely  thought  she  would  have 
begun  to  you  about  it  at  once  ;  but  then  I  am  doing  the 
very  same.  We  can't  think  of  anything  else.  I  arn  not 
going  to  worry  you  before  dinner,  for  you  must  be  tired 
with  your  walk,  and  want  to  refresh  yourself  before  we 
enter  upon  that  weary,  weary  business.  But  my  heart 
misgives  me  dreadfully  about  it  all.  If  I  onty  had  gone 
with  her  !  It  was  not  for  want  of  an  invitation,  but 
just  my  laziness.  I  could  not  be  troubled  to  leave  my 
own  house." 

"I  don't  see  what  difference  it  would  have  made  had 
you  been  with  her,  aunt." 

"  Oh,  I  should  have  seen  the  man  :  and  been  able  to 
judge  what  he  was  and  his  motive,  John," 

"Elinor  is  not  rich.  He  could  scaicely  have  had  an 
interested  motive." 

"  There  is  some  comfort  in.  that.  I  have  said  that  to 
myself  again  and  again.  He. could  not  have  an  interested 
motive.  But,  oh  !  I  am  uneasy  !  There  is  the  clress- 
iug-bell.  I  will  not  keep  you  any  longer,  John  ;  but  in 
the  evening,  or  to-morrow,  when  we  can  get  a  quiet 
moment " 

The  dusk,  was  now  pervading  all  the  house — that 
summer  dusk  which  there  is  a  natural  prejudice  every- 
where against  cutting  short  by  lights.  He  could  not 
see  her  face,  nor  she  his,  as  they  went  out  of  the  draw- 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  25 

ing-room  together  and  along  the  long  passage,  which 
led  by  several  arched  doorways  to  the  stairs.  Johu  had 
a  room  ou  the  ground  floor  which  was  kept  for  gentle- 
men visitors,  and  in  which  the  candles  were  twinkling 
on  the  dressing-table.  He  was  more  than  ever  thank- 
ful as  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  himself  in  the  vague  re- 
flected world  of  the  mirror,  with  its  lights  standing  up 
reflected  too,  like  inquisitors  spying  upon  him,  that 
there  had  not  been  light  enough  to  .show  how  he  was 
looking  :  for  though  lie  was  both  a  lawyer  and  a  man 
of  the  world,  John  Tatham  had  not  been  able  to  keep 
the  trouble  which  his  interview  with  Elinor  had  caused 
him  out  of  his  face. 


CHAPTER  IH. 

THE  drawing-room  of  the  cottage  was  large  and  low, 
and  had  that /(/</./•  air  of  being  old-fashioned  which  is 
dear  to  the  hearts  of  superior  people  generally.  Mrs. 
Deunistoun  and  her  daughter  scarce!}*  belonged  to  that 
class,  yet  they  were,  as  ladies  of  leisure  with  a  liitle 
taste  for  the  arts  are  bound  to  be,  touched  by  all  the 
fancies  of  their  time,  which  was  just  beginning  to  adore 
Queen  Anne.  There  was  still,  however,  a  mixture  of 
luxury  with  the  square  settees  and  spindle-legged  cabi- 
nets which  wore  "the  fashion:"  and  partly  because 
that  was  also  ''the  fashion,"  and  partly  because  on 
"Wiudyhill  even  a  July  evening  was  sometimes  a  little 
chill,  or  looked  so  by  reason  of  the  great  darkness  of 
the  silent,  little-inhabited  country  outside — there  was  a 
log  burning  on  the  fire-dogs  (the  newest  thing  in 
furnishing  in  those  days  though  now  so  common)  on 
the  hearth.  The  log  burned  as  little  as  possible,  being, 
perhaps,  not  quite  so  thoroughly  dry  and  serviceable  as 
it  would  have  been  in  its  proper  period,  and  made  a 
faint  hissing  sound  in  the  silence  as  it  burned,  and  dif- 
fused its  pungent  odour  through  the  house.  The  bow 
window  was  open  behind  its  white  curtains,  and  it  was 


26  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

there  that  the  little  party  gathered  out  of  reach  of  the 
unnecessary  heat  and  the  smoke.  There  was  a  low  sofa 
on  either  side  of  this  recess,  and  in  the  centre  the 
French  window  opened  into  the  garden,  where  all  the 
scents  were  balmy  in  the  stillness  which  had  fallen  upon 
the  night. 

Mrs.  Dennistoun  was  tall  and  slim,  a  woman  with  a 
presence,  and  sat  with  a  sort  of  dignity  on  her  side  of 
the  window,  with  a  little  table  beside  her  covered  with 
her  little  requirements,  the  properties,  so  to  speak, 
without  which  she  was  never  known  to  be — a  book  for 
moments  when  there  was  nothing  else  to  interest  her,  a 
case  for  work  should  there  arise  any  necessity  for  put- 
ting in  a  stitch  in  time,  a  bottle  of  salts  should  she  or 
any  one  else  become  suddenly  faint,  a  paper  cutter  in 
cases  of  emergency,  and  finally,  for  mere  ornament,  two 
roses,  a  red  and  a  white,  in  one  of  those  tall  old- 
fashioned  glasses  which  are  so  pretty  for  flowers.  I  do 
wrong  to  dismiss  the  roses  with  such  vulgar  qualifica- 
tions as  white  and  red — the  one  was  a  Souvenir  de 

Malmaison,  the  other  a  General something  or  other. 

If  you  spoke  to  Mrs.  Denuistoun  about  her  flowers  she 
said,  "Oh,  the  Malmaison,"  or  "Oh,  the  General  So- 
and-so."  Rose  was  only  the  family  name,  but  happily, 
as  we  all  know,  under  the  other  appellation  they  smelt 
just  as  sweet.  Mrs.  Deunistoun  kept  up  all  this  little 
state  because  she  had  been  used  to  do  so ;  because  it 
was  part  of  a  lady's  accoutrements,  so  to  speak.  She 
had  also  a  cushion,  which  Avas  necessary,  if  not  for  com- 
fort, yet  for  her  sense  of  being  fully  equipped,  placed 
behind  her  back  when  she  sat  down.  But  with  all  this 
she  was  not  a  formal  or  prim  person.  She  was  a  woman 
who  had  not  produced  a  great  deal  of  effect  in  life  ;  one 
of  those  who  are  not  accustomed  to  have  their  advice 
taken,  or  to  find  that  their  opinion  has  much  weight 
upon  others.  Perhaps  it  was  because  Elinor  resembled 
her  father  that  this  peculiarity  which  had  affected  all 
Mrs.  Dennistoun's  married  life  should  have  continued 
into  a  sphere  where  she  ought  to  have  been  paramount. 
But  she  was  with  her  daughter  as  she  had  been  with 


THE  KARRI AQB  OF  ELiyOK.  27 

her  husband,  a  person  of  an  ineffective  character,  tak- 
ing refuge  from  the  sensation  of  being  unable  to  in- 
fluence those  about  her  whose  wills  were  stronger  than 
her  own,  by  relinquishing  authority,  and  in  her  most 
decided  moments  offering  an  opinion  only,  no  more. 
This  was  not  because  she  was  really  undecided,  for  on 
the  contrary  she  knew  her  own  mind  well  enough  ;  but 
it  had  become  a  matter  of  habit  with  her  to  insist  upon 
no  opinion,  knowing,  as  she  did,  how  little  chance  she 
had  of  imposing  her  opinion  upon  the  stronger  wills 
about  her.  She  had  two  other  children  older  than 
Elinor :  one,  the  eldest  of  all,  married  in  India,  a  woman 
with  many  children  of  her  own,  practically  altogether 
severed  from  the  maternal  nest  ;  the  other  an  adventur- 
ous son,  who  was  generally  understood  to  be  at  the 
emls  of  the  earth,  but  seldom  or  never  had  any  more 
definite  address.  This  lady  had  naturally  gone  through 
many  pangs  and  anxieties  on  behalf  of  these  children, 
who  had  dropped  away  from  her  side  into  the  unknown  ; 
but  it  belonged  to  her  character  to  have  said  very  little 
about  this,  so  that  she  was  generally  supposed  to  take 
things  very  easily,  and  other  mothers  were  apt  to  ad- 
mire the  composure  of  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  whose  sou 
might  be  being  murdered  by  savages  at  any  moment, 
for  anything  she  knew — or  minded,  apparently.  "  NO\Y 
it  would  have  driven  //ta  out  of  my  senses  !  "  the  other 
ladies  said.  Mrs.  Dennistoun  perhaps  did  not  feel  the 
back  so  well  fitted  to  the  burden  as  appeared — but  she 
kept  her  own  sentiments  on  this  subject  entirely  to 
herself. 

(I  may  say  too  — but  this,  the  young  reader  may  skip 
without  disadvantage — by  way  of  explanation  of  a 
peculiarity  which  has  lately  been  much  remarked  as 
characteristic  of  those  records  of  human  history  con- 
temptuously called  fiction,  i.e.,  the  unimportance,  or  ill- 
report,  or  unjust  disapproval  of  the  mother  in  records 
of  this  description — that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  main- 
tain her  due  rank  and  character  in  a  piece  of  history, 
which  has  to  be  kept  within  certain  limits — and  where 
her  daughter  the  heroine  must  have  the  first  place.  To 


28  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

lessen  her  pre-eminence  by  dwelling  at  length  upon  the 
mother,  unless  that  mother  is  a  fool,  or  a  termagant,  or 
something  thoroughly  contrasting  with  the  beauty  and 
virtues  of  the  daughter — would  in  most  'cases  be  a 
mistake  in  art.  For  one  thing  the  necessary  incidents 
are  wanting,  for  I  strongly  object,  and  so  I  think  do 
most  people,  to  mothers  who  fall  in  love,  or  think  of 
marriage,  or  any  such  vanity  in  their  own  person,  and 
unless  she  is  to  interfere  mischievously  with  the  young 
lady's  prospects,  or  take  more  or  less  the  part  of  the 
villain,  how  is  she  to  be  permitted  any  importance  at 
all?  For  there  cannot  be  two  suns  in  one  sphere,  or 
two  centres  to  one  world.  Thus  the  mother  has  to  be 
sacrificed  to  the  daughter  :  which  is  a  parable  ;  or  else 
it  is  the  other  way,  which  is  against  all  the  principles 
and  prepossessions  of  life.) 

Elinor  did  not  sit  up  like  her  mother.  She  had  flung 
herself  upon  the  opposite  sofa,  with  her  arms  flung  be- 
hind her  head,  supporting  it  with  her  fingers  half  buried 
in  the  twists  of  her  hair.  She  was  not  tall  like  Mis. 
Dennistoun,  and  there  was  far  more  vivid  colour  than 
had  ever  been  the  mother's  in  her  brown  eyes  and 
bright  complexion,  which  was  milk-white  and  rose-red 
after  an  old-fashioned  rule  of  colour,  too  crude  perhaps 
for  modern  artistic  taste.  Sometimes  these  delightful 
tints  go  with  a  placid  soul  which  never  varies,  but  in 
Elinor's  case  there  was  a  demon  in  the  hazel  of  the 
eyes,  not  dark  enough  for  placidity,  all  fire  at  the  best 
of  times,  and  ready  in  a  moment  to  burst  into  flame. 
She  it  was  who  had  to  be  in  the  forefront  of  the  inter- 
est, and  not  her  mother,  though  for  metaphysical,  or 
what  I  suppose  should  now  be  called  psychological  in- 
terests, the  elder  lady  was  probably  the  most  interesting 
of  the  two.  Elinor  beat  her  foot  upon  the  carpet,  out 
of  sheer  impatience,  while  John  lingered  alone  in  the 
dining-room.  What  did  he  stay  there  for  ?  When  there 
are  several  men  together,  and  they  drink  wine,  the  thing 
is  comprehensible  ;  but  one  man  alone  who  takes  his 
claret  with  his  dinner,  and  cares  for  nothing  more,  why 
should  he  stay  behind  when  there  was  so  much  to  say 


THE  MAUIUA'-E  OF  ELINOR.  29 

to  him,  and  not  one  minute  too  much  time  till  Monday 
morning,  should  the  house  be  given  up  to  talk  not  only 
l>y  day  but  by  night?  But  it  was  no  use  beating  one's 
foot,  for  John  did  not  come. 

'•  You  spoke  to  your  cousin,  Elinor,  before  dinner?  " 
her  mother  said. 

"Oh,  yes.  I  spoke  to  him  before  dinner.  What  did 
he  come  here  for  but  that  ?  I  sent  for  him  on  yurpose, 
you  know,  mamma,  to  hear  what  he  would  say." 

'•'  And  what  did  he  say  ?" 

This  most  natural  question  produced  a  small  convul- 
sion once  more  on  Eliuor's  side.  She  loosed  the  hands 
that  had  been  supporting  her  head  and  Hung  them  out 
in  front  of  her.  "  Oh,  mamma,  how  can  you  be  so  ex- 
asperating !  What  did  he  say  ?  What  was  he  likely  to 
say?  If  the  beggar  maid  that  married  King  Cophetua 
had  a  family  it  would  have  been  exactly  the  same  thing 
— though  in  that  case  siirely_the  advantage  was  all  on 
the  gentleman's  side." 

"We  know  none  of  the  particulars  in  that  case,"  said 
Mrs.  Dennistoun,  calmly.     "  I  have  always  thought  it 
quite  possible  that  the  beggar  maid  was  a  princ- 
an  old  dynasty  and  King  Cophetua  a  parvenu.     But  in 
your  case,  Elinor " 

"You  know  just  as  little,"  said  the  girl,  impetuously. 

"  That  is  what  I  say.  I  don't  know  the  man  who  has 
possessed  himself  of  my  child's  fancy  and  heart.  I 
want  to  know  more  about  him.  I  want " 

"For  goodness'  sake,  whatever  you  want,  don't  be 
sentimental,  mamma  !  " 

"Was  I  sentimental?  I  didn't  mean  it.  He  has 
got  your  heart,  my  dear,  whatever  words  may  be 
used." 

"  Yes — and  for  ever  !  "  said  the  girl,  turning  round 
upon  herself.  "  I  know  you  think  I  don't  know  my  own 
mind  ;  but  there  will  never  be  any  change  in  me.  Oh, 
what  does  John  mean,  sitting  all  by  himself  in  that 
stuffy  room  ?  He  has  had  time  to  smoke  a  hundred 
cigarettes !  " 

"  Elinor,  you  must  not  forget  it  is  rather  hard  upon 


30  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

John  to  be  brought  down  to  settle  your  difficulties  for 
you.  What  do  you  want  with  him  ?  Only  that  he 
should  advise  you  to  do  what  you  have  settled  upon 
doing.  If  he  took  the  other  side,  how  much  attention 
would  you  give  him  ?  You  must  be  reasonable,  my 
dear." 

"  I  would  give  him  every  attention,"  said  Elinor,  "  if 
he  said  what  was  reasonable.  You  don't  think  mere 
blind  opposition  is  reasonable,  I  hope,  mamma.  To 
say  Don't,  merely,  without  saying  why,  what  reason  is 
there  in  that?" 

"My  dear,  when  you  argue  I  am  lost.  I  am  not 
clever  at  making  out  my  ground.  Mine  is  not  mere 
blind  opposition,  or  indeed  opposition  at  all.  You 
have  been  always  trained  to  use  your  own  faculties,  and 
I  have  never  made  any  stand  against  you." 

"Why  not?  why  not?"  said  the  girl,  springing  to 
her  feet.  "  That  is  just  the  dreadful,  dreadful  part  of 
it !  Why  don't  you  say  straight  out  what  I  am  to  do 
and  keep  to  it,  and  not  tell  me  I  must  make  use  of 
my  own  faculties  ?  When  I  do,  you  put  on  a  face  and 
object.  Either  don't  object,  or  tell  me  point-blank 
what  I  am  to  do." 

"  Do  you  think  for  one  moment  if  I  did,  you  would 
obey  me,  Elinor  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  I  might  do  in  that  case,  for 
it  will  never  happen.  You  will  never  take  that  respon- 
sibility. For  my  part,  if  you  locked  me  up  in  my  room 
and  kept  me  on  bread  and  water  I  should  think  that 
reasonable  ;  but  not  this  kind  of  letting  I  dare  not  wait 
upon  I  would,  saying  I  am  to  exercise  my  own  faculties, 
and  then  hesitating  and  finding  fault." 

"  I  daresay,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  with 
great  tolerance,  "  that  this  may  be  provoking  to  your 
impatient  mind  :  but  you  must  put  yourself  in  my 
place  a  little,  as  I  try  to  put  myself  in  yours.  I  have 
never  seen  Mr.  Compton.  It  is  probable,  or  at  least 
quite  possible,  that  if  I  knew  him  I  might  look  upon 
him  with  your  eyes " 

"Probable!    Possible!     What  words  to  use!  when 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  31 

all  my  happiness,  all  my  life,  everything  I  care  for  is  in 
it  :  and  my  own  mother  thinks  it  just  possible  that  she 
might  be  able  to  tolerate  the  man  that — the  man 
who " 

She  flung  herself  clown  on  her  seat  again,  panting 
and  excited.  "  Did  yon  wear  out  Adelaide  like  that," 
she  cried,  "  before  she  married,  papa  and  you " 

"  Adelaide  was  very  different,  Elinor.  She  married 
nal'jH  le*  r>:'j^'-<  a  man  whom  we  all  knew.  There  was 
no  trouble  about  it.  Your  father  was  the  one  who  was 
impatient  then.  He  thought  it  too  well  arranged,  too 
commonplace  and  satisfactory.  You  may  believe  he 
did  not  object  to  that  in  words,  but  he  laughed  at  them 
and  it  worried  him.  It  has  done  very  well  on  the 
whole,5'  said  Sirs.  Deuuistoun,  with  a  faint  sigh. 

"  You  say  that — and  then  you  sigh.  There  is  always 
a  little  reserve.  You  are  never  wholly  satisfied." 

"  One  seldom  is  in  this  world,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun, 
this  time  with  a  soft  laugh.  "  This  world  is  not  very 
satisfactory.  One  makes  the  best  one  can  of  it." 

"  And  that  is  just  what  I  hate  to  hear,"  said  Elinor, 
"  what  I  have  always  heard.  Oh,  yes,  when  you  don't 
say  it  you  mean  it,  mamma.  One  can  read  it  in  the 
turn  of  your  head.  You  put  up  with  things.  You 
think  perhaps  they  might  hare  been  worse.  In  everj 
way  that's  your  philosophy.  And  it's  killing,  killing  to 
all  life  !  I  would  rather  far  you  said  out,  '  Adelaide's 
husband  is  a  prig  and  I  hate  him.' " 

"  There  is  only  one  drawback,  that  it  would  not  be 
true.  I  don't  in  the  least  hate  him.  I  am  glad  I  was 
not  called  upon  to  marry  him  myself,  I  don't  think  I 
should  have  liked  it.  But*  he  makes  Adelaide  a  very 
good  husband,  and  she  is  quite  happy  with  him — as  far 
as  I  know." 

"  The  same  thing  again — never  more.  I  wonder,  I 
wonder  after  I  have  been  married  a  dozen  years  what 
you  will  say  of  me  ?  " 

"  I  wonder,  too  ;  if  we  could  but  know  that  it  would 
solve  the  question,"  the  mother  said.  Elinor  looked  at 
her  with  a  provoked  and  impatient  air,  which  softened 


ol'  THE  MMtlUAVE   OF  ELINOR. 

off  after  a  moment — partly  because  she  beard  the  door 
of  the  dining-room  open — into  a  smile 

"I  try  you  in  every  way,"  she  said,  half  laughing. 
"  I  do  everything  to  beguile  you  into  a  pleasanter 
speech.  I  thought  you  must  at  least  have  said  then 
that  you  hoped  you  would  have  nothing  to  say  but 
happiness.  No  !  you  are  not  to  be  caught,  however 
one  tries,  mamma." 

John  came  in  at  this  moment,  not  without  a 
whiff  about  him  of  the  cigarette  over  which  lie  had 
lingered  so.  It  relieved  him  to  see  the  two  ladies 
seated  opposite  each  other  in  the  bow  window,  and  to 
hear  something  like  a  laugh  in  the  air.  Perhaps  they 
were  discussing  other  things,  and  not  this  momen- 
tous marriage  question,  in  which  certainly  no  laughter 
was. 

"  You  have  your  usual  tire,"  he  said,  "  but  the  wind 
has  quite  gone  down,  and  I  am  sure  it  is  not  wanted 
to-night." 

"It  looks  cheerful  always,  John." 

"  Which  is  the  reason,  I  suppose,  why  you  carefully 
place  yourself  out  of  sight  of  it — one  of  the  prejudices 
of  English  life." 

And  then  he  came  forward  into  the  recess  of  the 
window,  which  was  partly  separated  from  the  room  by 
a  table  with  flowers  on  it,  and  a  great  bush  in  a  pot,  of 
.delicate  maiden-hair  fern.  It  was  perhaps  significant, 
though  he  did  not  mean  it  for  any  demonstration  of 
partisanship,  that  he  sat  down  on  Elinor's  side.  Both 
the  ladies  felt  it  so  instinctively,  although,  on  the 
contrary,  had  the  truth  been  known,  all  John's  real 
agreement  was  with  the  mother  ;  but  in  such  a  con- 
juncture it  is  not  truth  but  personal  sympathy  that 
carries  the  day.  "You  are  almost  in  the  dark  here," 
he  said. 

"  Neither  of  us  is  doing  anything.  One  is  lazy  on  a 
summer  night." 

"There  is  a  great  deal  more  in  it  than  that,"  said 
Elinor,  in  a  voice  which  faltered  a  little.  "You  talk 
about  summer  nights,  and  the  weather,  and  all  manner 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  EL1XOR.  33 

of  indiftei'ent  tilings,  but  you  know  all  the  time  there  is 
but  one  real  subject  to  talk  of,  and  that  we  are  all 
thinking  of  that." 

"That  is  ray  line,  aunt,"  said  John.  "Elinor  is 
right.  We  might  sit  and  make  conversation,  but  of 
course  this  is  the  only  subject  we  are  thinking  of.  It's 
very  kind  of  you  to  take  me  into  the  consultation.  Of 
course  I  am  in  a  kind  of  way  the  nearest  in  relation, 
and  the  only  man  in  the  family— except  my  father — 
and  I  know  a  little  about  law,  and  all  that.  Now  let 
me  hear  formally,  as  if  I  knew  nothing  about  it  (and, 
in  fact,  I  know  very  little),  what  the  question  is.  Eli- 
nor has  met  someone  who — who  has  proposed  to  her — 
not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon  it,"  said  John,  with  a 
smile  that  was  somewhat  ghastly — "  and  she  has  ac- 
cepted him.  Congratulations  are  understood,  but  here 
there  arises  a  hitch." 

"  There  arises  no  hitch.  Mamma  is  dissatisfied 
(which  mamma  generally  is)  chiefly  because  she  does 
not  know  Mr.  Compton  ;  and  some  wretched  old 
woman,  who  doesn't  know  him  either,  has  written  to 
her — to  her  and  also  to  me — telling  us  a  pack  of  lies," 
said  Elinor,  indignantly,  "to  which  I  do  not  give  the 
least  credence  for  a  moment — not  for  a  moment !  " 

"That's  all  very  well  for  you,"  said  John,  "it's  quite 
simple  ;  but  for  us,  Elinor — that  is,  for  your  mother 
and  me,  as  you  are  good  enough  to  allow  me  to  have  a 
say  in  the  matter — it's  not  so  simple.  We  feel,  you 
know,  that,  like  Caesar's  wife,  our  Elinor's — husband  " 
— he  could  not  help  making  a  grimace  as  he  said  that 
word,  but  no  one  saw  or  suspected  it — "should  be 
above  suspicion." 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  feel,  John." 

"Well,  we  must  do  something  about  it,  don't  you 
see  ?  Probably  it  will  be  as  easy  as  possible  for  him 
to  clear  himself."  (The  dis-Honourable  Phil !  Good 
heavens !  to  think  it  was  a  man  branded  with  such  a 
name  that  was  to  marry  Elinor !  For  a  moment  he  was 
silenced  by  the  thought,  as  if  some  one  had  given  him 
a  blow.) 
3 


34:  TUE  MAUHIAVE   OF  ELINOR. 

"  To  clear  himself  !  "  said  Eliuor.  "  And  do  you 
think  I  will  permit  him  to  be  asked  to  clear  himself? 
Do  you  think  I  will  allow  him  to  believe  for  a  moment 
that  /  believed  anything  against  him  ?  Do  you  think  I 
will  take  the  word  of  a  spiteful  old  woman  ?  " 

"  Old  women  are  not  always  spiteful,  and  they  are 
sometimes  right."  John  put  out  his  hand  to  prevent 
Mrs.  Denuistoun  from  speaking,  which,  indeed,  she  had 
no  intention  of  doing.  "  I  don't  mean  so,  of  course,  in 
Mr.  Compton's  case — and  I  don't  know  what  has  been 
said." 

"  Things  that  are  very  uncomfortable — very  inconsist- 
ent with  a  happy  life  and  a  comfortable  establish- 
ment," said  Mrs.  Deunistoun. 

"  Oh,  if  you  could  only  hear  yourself,  mamma ! 
You  are  not  generally  a  Philistine,  I  must  say  that  for 
you  ;  but  if  you  only  heard  the  tone  in  which  you  said 
'  comfortable  establishment ! '  the  most  conventional 
match-making  in  existence  could  not  have  done  it 
better ;  and  as  for  what  has  been  said,  there  has  noth- 
ing been  said  but  what  is  said  about  everybody — what, 
probably,  would  be  said  of  you  yourself,  John,  for  you 
play  whist  sometimes,  I  hear,  and  often  billiards,  at  the 
club." 

A  half-audible  "  God  forbid  !  "  had  come  from  John's 
lips  when  she  said,  "  What  would  probably  be  said  of 
yourself  " — audible  that  is  to  Elinor,  not  to  the  mother. 
She  sprang  up  as  this  murmur  came  to  her  ear  :  "  Oh, 
if  you  are  going  to  prejudge  the  case,  there  is  nothing 
for  me  to  say  !  " 

"I  should  be  very  sorry  to  prejudge  the  case,  or  to 
judge  it  all,"  said  John.  "  I  am  too  closely  interested  to 
be  judicial.  Let  somebody  who  knows  nothing  about  it 
be  your  judge.  Let  the  accusations  be  submitted — to 
your  Rector,  say  ;  he's  a  sensible  man  enough,  and 
knows  the  world.  He  won't  be  scared  by  a  rubber  at 
the  club,  or  that  sort  of  thing.  Let  him  inquire,  and 
then  your  mind  will  be  at  rest." 

"  There  is  only  one  difficulty,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Den- 
uistoun. "  Mr.  Hudson  would  be  the  best  man  in  the 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  o5 

world,  only  for  one  thing — that  it  is  from  his  sister  and 
his  wife  that  the  warning  came." 

"  Oh  ! "  said  John.  This  fact  seemed  to  take  him 
aback  in  the  most  ludicrous  way.  He  sat  and  gazed 
at  them,  and  had  not  another  word  to  say.  Perhaps 
the  fact  that  he- himself  who  suggested  the  inquiry  was 
still  better  informed  of  the  true  state  of  the  case,  and 
of  the  truth  of  the  accusation,  than  were  those  to 
whom  he  might  have  submitted  it,  gave  him  a  sense  of 
the  hopelessness  and  also  absurdity  of  the  attempt 
more  than  anything  else  could  have  done. 

"  And  that  proves,  if  there  was  nothing  else,"  said 
Elinor,  "  how  false  it  JLS  :  for  how  could  Mrs.  Hudson 
and  Mary  Dale  know  ?  They  are  not  fashionable 
people,  they  are  not  in  society.  How  could  they  or 
any  one  like  them  know  anything  of  Phil  " — she  stopped 
quickly,  drew  herself  up,  and  added — "of  Mr.  Comp- 
ton,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  They  might  not  know,  but  they  might  state  their 
authority,"  Mrs.  Dennistouu  said  ;  "  and  if  the  Rector 
cannot  be  used  to  help  us,  surely,  John,  you  are  a  man 
of  the  world,  you  are  not  like  a  woman,  unacquainted 
with  evidence.  Why  should  not  you  do  it,  though  you 
are,  as  you  kindly  say,  an  interested  party  ?  " 

"  He  shall  not  do  it.  I  forbid  him  to  do  it.  If  he 
takes  in  hand  anything  of  the  kind  he  must  say  good- 
by  to  me." 

"You  hear?"  said  John  ;  "  but  I  could  not  do  it  m 
any  case,  my  dear  Elinor.  I  am  too  near.  I  never 
could  see  this  thing  all  round.  Why  not  your  lawyer, 
old  Lynch,  a  decent  old  fellow " 

"  I  will  tell  him  the  same,"  cried  Elinor ;  "  I  will 
never  speak  to  him  again." 

"  My  dear,"  said  her  mother,  "  you  will  give  every- 
body the  idea  that  you  don't  want  to  know  the  truth." 

"  I  know  the  truth  already,"  said  Elinor,  rising  with 
great  dignity.  "  Do  you  think  that  any  slander  would 
for  a  moment  shake  my  faith  in  you — or  you  ?  You 
don't  deserve  it,  John,  for  you  turn  against  me — you 
that  I  thought  were  going  to  take  my  part ;  but  do  you 


THE  MA'&RlAGg  OF  ELINOR. 

think  if  all  the  people  in  London  set  up  one  story  that 
I  would  believe  it  against  you?  And  how  should  I 
against  him?"  she  added,  with  an  emphasis  upon  the 
word,  as  expressing  something  immeasurably  more  to 
be  loved  and  trusted  than  either  mother  or  cousin,  by 
which,  after  having  raised  John  up  to  a  sort  of  heaven 
of  gratified  affection,  she  let  him  down  again  to  the 
ground  like  a  stone.  Oh,  yes  !  trusted  in  with  perfect 
faith,  nothing  believed  against  him,  whom  she  had 
known  all  her  life — but  yet  uot  to  be  mentioned  in  the 
same  breath  with  the  ineffable  trust  she  reposed  in  the 
man  she  loved — whom  she  did  not  know  at  all.  The 
lirst  made  John's  countenance  beam  with  emotion  and 
pleasure,  the  second  brought  a  cold  shade  over  his  face. 
For  a  moment  he  could  scarcely  speak. 

"  She  bribes  us,"  he  said  at  last,  forcing  a  smile. 
"  She  flatters  us,  but  only  to  let  us  drop  again,  Mrs. 
Dennistoun  ;  it  is  as  good  as  saying,  '  What  are  we  to 
him  ? ' " 

"  They  all  do  so,"  said  the  elder  lady,  calmly  ;  "  I  am 
used  to  it." 

"But,  perhaps,  I  am  not  quite — used  to  it,"  said 
John,  with  something  in  his  voice  which  made  them 
both  look  at  him — Elinor  only  for  a  moment,  care- 
lessly, before  she  swept  away — Mrs.  Dennistoun  with  a 
more  warmly  awakened  sensation,  as  if  she  had  made 
some  discovery.  "  Ah  !  "  she  said,  with  a  tone  of  pain. 
But  Elinor  did  not  wait  for  any  further  disclosures. 
She  waved  her  hand,  and  went  off  with  her  head  high, 
carrying,  as  she  felt,  the  honours  of  war.  They  might 
plot,  indeed,  behind  her  back,  and  try  to  invent  some 
tribunal  before  which  her  future  husband  might  be 
arraigned  ;  but  John,  at  least,  would  say  nothing  to 
make  things  worse.  John  would  be  true  to  her — he 
would  not  injure  Phil  Compton.  Elinor,  perhaps, 
guessed  a  little  of  what  John  was  thinking,  and  felt, 
though  she  could  scarcely  have  told  how,  that  it 
would  be  a  point  of  honour  with  him  not  to  betray  her 
love. 

He  sat  with  Mrs.  Dennistoun  in  partial  silence  for 


TSS  MAftRIAGS  OF  ELINOR.  37 

some  time  after  this.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  been  partially 
discovered — partially,  aud  yet  more  would  be  dis- 
covered than  there  was  to  discover  ;  for  if  either  of  them 
believed  that  he  was  in  love  with  Elinor,  they  were  mis- 
taken, he  said  to  himself.  He  had  been  annoyed  by 
her  engagement,  but  he  had  never  come  to  the  point 
of  asking  her  that  question  in  his  own  person.  No, 
nor  would  not,  he  said  to  himself — certainly  would  not 
— not  even  to  save  her  from  the  clutches  of  this  gambler 
aud  adventurer.  No  ;  they  might  think  what  they 
liked,  but  this  was  the  case.  He  never  should  have 
done  it — never  would  have  exposed  himself  to  refusal — 
never  besought  this  high-tempered  girl  to  have  the 
control  of  his  life.  Poor  Nelly  all  the  same  !  poor 
little  thing  !  To  think  she  had  so  little  judgment  as  to 
ignore  what  might  have  been  a  great  deal  better,  and 
to  pin  her  faith  to  the  dis-Honourable  Phil. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IN  the  morning  John  accompanied  Elinor  to  church. 
Mrs.  Dennistoun  had  found  an  excuse  for  not  going, 
which  I  am  sorry  to  say  was  a  way  she  had.  She  ex- 
pressed (and  felt)  much  sorrow  for  it  herself,  saying, 
which  was  quite  true,  that  not  to  go  was  a  great  distress 
to  her,  and  put  the  household  out,  aud  was  a  custom 
she  did  not  approve  of.  But  somehow  it  had  grown 
upon  her.  She  regretted  this,  but  did  it,  saying  that 
everybody  was  illogical,  and  that  when  Elinor  had  some 
one  to  go  with  she  thought  herself  justified  at  her  age 
in  this  little  indulgence.  Neither  Elinor  nor  John 
objected  to  the  arrangement.  There  are  things  that 
can  be  said  in  a  walk  while  both  parties  are  in  motion, 
and  when  it  is  not  necessary  to  face  each  other  and  to 
be  subjected  each  to  the  other's  examination  of  feature 
and  expression.  It  is  easier  in  this  way  to  say  many 
things,  to  ask  questions  which  might  be  embarrassing, 


38  TIIK  MA1UUAGK   OF  ELIXOR. 

to  receive  the  fire  of  tin  examination  which  it  might  be 
otherwise  difficult  to  meet.  Thus  the  two  had  not 
walked  above  half  the  way  to  church,  which  was  on  the 
other  edge  of  the  combe,  and  stood,  a  lovely  old  place 
— but  not  the  trim  and  restored  and  well-decorated 
edifice  it  is  nowadays — tinkling  its  little  bells  into  the 
sweet  moorland  air,  amid  such  a  hum  of  innumerable 
bees  as  seemed  to  make  the  very  sunshine  a  vehicle 
for  sound — before  John  began  to  perceive  that  he  was 
being  ingeniously  driven  to  revelations  which  he  had 
never  intended,  by  a  process  for  which  he  was  not  at  all 
prepared.  She  who  had  been  so  indignant  last  night 
and  determined  not  to  allow  a  word  to  be  said 
against  the  immaculate  honour  of  the  man  she  loved, 
was  now — was  it  possible? — straining  all  her  faculties 
to  obtain  from  him.  whom  she  would  not  permit  to  be 
Phil  Cornpton's  judge,  such  unguarded  admissions  as 
would  enlighten  her  as  to  what  Phil  Compton  was 
accused  of.  It  was  some  time  before  John  perceived 
her  aim  ;  he  did  not  even  grasp  the  idea  at  first  that 
this  girl  whose  whole  heart  was  set  upon  marrying 
Phil  Compton,  and  defying  for  his  sake  every  proph- 
ecy of  evil  and  all  the  teachings  of  prudence,  did  not 
indeed  at  all  know  what  it  was  which  Phil  had  been 
supposed  to  have  done.  Had  she  been  a  girl  in  society 
she  could  scarcely  have  avoided  some  glimmerings  of 
knowledge.  She  would  have  heard  an  unguarded  word 
here  and  there,  a  broken  phrase,  an  expression  of 
scorn  or  dislike,  she  might  even  have  heard  that 
most  unforgettable  of  nicknames,  the  dis-Houourable 
Phil.  But  Elinor,  who  was  not  in  society,  heard  none 
of  these  things.  She  had  been  warned  in  the  first 
fer.our  of  her  bethrotlml  that  he  was  not  a  man  she 
ought  to  marry,  but  why  ?  nobody  had  told  her ; 
how  was  she  to  know  ? 

"  You  don't  like  Lady  Mariamue,  John  ?  " 
"  It  matters  very  little  whether  I  like  her  or  not :  we 
don't  meet  once  in  a  year." 

"  It  will  matter  if  you  are  to  be  in  a  kind  of  way 
connected.     What  has  she  ever  done  that  you  shouldn't 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  39 

like  her  ?  She  is  very  nice  at  home  ;  she  has  three 
nice  little  children.  It's  quite  pretty  to  see  her  with 
them." 

"  Ah,  I  daresay  ;  it's  pretty  to  see  a  tiger  with  her 
cubs,  I  don't  doubt." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  John  ?  What  has  she  ever 
done  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,  Elinor  ;  nothing  perhaps.  She 
does  not  take  my  fancy  :  that's  all." 

"That's  not  all;  you  could  never  be  so  unjust  and 
so  absurd.  How  dreadful  you  good  people  are  !  Pre- 
tending to  mean  kindness,"  she  cried,  "you  put  the 
mark  of  your  dislike  upon  people,  and  then  you  won't 
say  why.  What  have  they  done?" 

It  was  this  "  they  "  that  put  John  upon  his  guard. 
Hitherto  she  had  only  been  asking  about  the  sister, 
who  did  not  matter  so  very  much.  If  a  man  was  to  be 
judged  by  his  sister !  but  "  they  "  gave  him  a  new  light. 

"Can't  you  understand,  Elinor,"  he  said,  "that 
without  doing  anything  that  can  be  built  upon,  a 
woman  may  set  herself  in  a  position  of  enmity  to  the 
world,  her  hand  against  every  one,  and  every  one's 
hand  against  her  ?  " 

"I  know  that  well  enough  —  generally  because  she 
does  not  comply  with  every  conventional  rule,  but  does 
and  thinks  what  commends  itself  to  her  ;  I  do  that  my- 
self— so  far  as  I  can  with  mamma  behind  me." 

"  You  !  the  question  has  nothing  to  do  with  you." 

"  Why  not  with  me  as  much  as  with  another  of  my 
family  ?"  said  Elinor,  throwing  back  her  head. 

He  turned  round  upon  her  with  something  like  a 
snort  of  indignation  :  she  to  be  compared — but  Elinor 
met  his  eyes  with  scornful  composure  and  defiance,  and 
John  was  obliged  to  calm  himself.  "  There's  no  anal- 
ogy," he  said  ;  "  Lady  Mariamne  is  an  old  campaigner. 
She's  up  to  everything.  Besides,  a  sister-in-law — if  it 
comes  to  that — is  not  a  very  near  relation.  No  one 
will  judge  you  by  her."  He  would  not  be  led  into  any 
discussion  of  the  other,  whose  name,  alas  !  .Elinor  in- 
tended to  bear. 


40  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

"If  it  cornea  to  that.  Perhaps  you  think,"  said  El- 
inor, with  a  sruile  of  tine  scorn,  "  that  yon  will  prevent 
it  ever  coming  to  that  ?  " 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said,  "  I'm  very  humble;  I  don't  think 
much  of  my  own  powers  in  that  way  :  nothing  that  I 
can  do  will  affect  it,  if  Providence  doesn't  take  it  in 
hand." 

"  You  really  think  it's  a  big  enough  thing  to  invoke 
Providence  about  ?  " 

"  If  Providence  looks  after  the  sparrows  as  we  are 
told,"  said  John,  "  it  certainly  may  be  expected  to  step 
in  to  save  a  nice  girl  like  you,  Nelly,  from — from  con- 
nections you'll  soon  get  to  hate — and — and  a  shady 
man  ! " 

She  turned  upon  him  with  sparkling  eyes  in  a  sudden 
blaze  of  indignation.  "  How  dare  you  !  how  dare  you  !  " 

"I  dare  a  great  deal  more  than  that  to  save"  you. 
You  must  hear  me,  Nelly  :  they're  all  badly  spoken  of, 
not  one,  but  all.  They  are  a  shad}7  lot — excuse  a  man's 
way  of  talking.  I  don't  know  what  other  words  to  use 
— partly  from  misfortune,  but  more  from —  -  Nelly, 
Nelly,  how  could  you,  a  high-minded,  well-brought-up 
girl  like  you,  tolerate  that  ?  " 

She  turned  upon  him  again,  breathing  hard  with  re- 
strained rage  and  desperation  ;  evidently  she  was  at  a 
loss  for  words  ta  convey  her  indignant  wrath  :  and  at 
last  in  sheer  inability  to  express  the  vehemence  of  her 
feelings  she  fastened  on  one  word  and  repeated  "  well- 
brought-up  !  "  in  accents  of  scorn. 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  "  my  aunt  and  you  may  not  always 
understand  each  other,  but  she's  proved  her  case  to 
every  fair  mind  by  yourself,  Elinor.  A  girl  could  not 
be  better  brought  up  than  you've  been  :  and  you  could 
not  put  up  with  it,  not  unless  you  changed  your  nature 
as  well  as  your  name." 

"  With  what  ?  "  she  said,  "  with  what  ?  "  They  had 
gone  up  and  down  the  sloping  sides  of  the  combe, 
through  the  rustling  copse,  sometimes  where  there  was 
a  path,  sometimes  whei'e  there  was  none,  treading  over 
the  big  bushes  of  ling  and  the  bell-heather,  all  burst- 


TUX  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR.  41 

ing  into  bloorn,  past  groups  of  primeval  firs  and  seed- 
ling beeches,  self-sown,  over  little  hillocks  and  hollows 
formed  of  rocks  or  big  old  roots  of  trees  covered  with 
the  close  glittering  green  foliage  and  dark  blue  clusters 
of  the  dewberry,  with  the  hum  of  bees  filling  the  air, 
the  twittering  of  the  birds,  the  sound  of  the  church 
bells — nothing  more  like  the  heart  of  summer,  more 
peaceful,  genial,  happy  than  that  brooding  calm  of 
nature  amid  all  the  harmonious  sounds,  could  be. 

But  as  Elinor  put  this  impatient  question,  her  coun- 
tenance all  ablaze  with  auger  and  vehemence  and  reso- 
lution, yet  with  a  gleam  of  anxiety  in  the  puckers  of 
her  forehead  and  the  eyes  which  shone  from  beneath 
them,  they  stepped  out  upon  the  road  by  which  other 
groups  were  passing,  all  bound  towards  the  centre  of 
the  church  and  its  tinkling  bells.  Elinor  stopped,  and 
drew  a  longer  panting  breath,  and  gave  him  a  look  of 
fierce  reproach,  as  if  this  too  were  his  fault  :  and  then 
she  smoothed  her  ruffled  plumes,  after  the  manner  of 
women,  and  replied  to  the  Sunday-morning  salutations, 
with  the  smiles  and  nods  of  use  and  wont.  She  knew 
everybody,  both  the  rich  and  the  poor,  or  rather  I 
should  say  the  well-off  and  the  less-well-off,  for  there 
were  neither  rich  nor  poor,  formally  speaking,  on 
Windy  hill.  John  did  not  find  it  so  easy  to  put  his 
emotions  in  his  pocket.  He  cast  an  admiring  glance 
upon  her  as  with  heightened  colour  and  a  little  panting 
of  the  breath,  but  no  other  sign  of  disturbance,  she 
made  her  inquiries  after  this  one's  mother  and  that  one's 
child.  It  was  wonderful  to  him  to  see  how  the  storm 
was  got  under  in  a  moment.  An  occasional  glance 
aside  at  himself  from  the  corner  of  her  eye,  a  sort  of 
dart  of  defiance  as  if  to  bid  him  remember  that  she  was 
not  done  with  him,  was  shot  at  John  from  time  to  time 
over  the  heads  of  the  innocent  country  people  in  whom 
she  pretended  to  be  so  much  interested.  Pretended  ! 
— was  it  pretence,  or  was  the  one  as  real  as  the  other  ? 
He  heard  her  promising  to  come  to-morrow  to  see  an 
invalid,  to  send  certain  articles  as  soon  as  she  got  home, 
to  look  up  certain  books.  Would  she  do  so?  or  was 


42  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

all  this  a  mere  veil  to  cover  the  other  which  engaged 
all  her  soul  ? 

And  then  there  came  the  service — that  soothing 
routine  of  familiar  prayers,  which  the  lips  of  men  and 
women  absorbed  in  the  violence  and  urgency  of  life 
murmur  over  almost  without  knowing,  with  now  and 
then  an  awakening  to  something  that  touches  their 'own 
aspirations,  to  something  that  offers  or  that  asks  for 
help.  "Because  there  is  none  other  that  fighteth  for 
us  but  only  Thou,  O  God."  That  seems  to  the  careless 
soul  such  a  non  sequitur,  as  if  peace  was  asked  for,  only 
because  there  was  none  other  to  fight ;  but  to  the  man 
heavily  laden,  what  a  cry  out  of  the  depths  !  Because 
there  is  none  other — all  resources  gone,  all  possibilities  : 
but  one  that  fighteth  for  us,  standing  fast,  always  the 
champion  of  the  perplexed,  the  overborne,  the  weak. 
John  was  a  little  careless  in  this  respect,  as  so  many 
young  men  are.  He  thought  most  of  the  music  when 
he  joined  the  fashionable  throng  in  the  Temple  Church. 
But  there  was  no  music  to  speak  of  at  Wiudyhill. 
There  was  more  sound  of  the  bees  outside,  and  the 
birds  and  the  sighing  bass  of  the  fir-trees  than  of  any- 
thing more  carefully  concerted.  The  organ  was  played 
with  a  curious  drone  in  it,  almost  like  that  of  the  prim- 
itive bagpipe.  But  there  was  that  one  phrase,  a  strong 
strain  of  human  appeal,  enough  to  lift  the  world,  nay, 
to  let  itself  go  straight  to  the  blue  heavens  :  "Because 
there  is  none  other  that  fighteth  for  us  but  only  Thou, 
O  God." 

Mr.  Hudson  preached  his  little  sermon  like  a  discord 
in  the  midst.  What  should  he  have  preached  it  for, 
that  little  sermon,  which  was  only  composed  because  he 
could  not  help  himself,  which  was  about  nothing  in 
heaven  or  earth  ?  John  gave  it  a  sort  of  partial  atten- 
tion because  he  could  not  help  it,  partly  in  wonder  to 
think  how  a  sensible  man  like  Mr.  Hudson  could  ac- 
count to  himself  for  such  strange  little  interruption  of 
the  natural  sequence  of  high  human  emotion.  "NVhat 
theory  had  he  in  his  mind  ?  This  was  a  question  John 
was  fund  of  putting  to  himself,  with  perhaps  an  idea 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  43 

peculiar  to  a  lawyer,  that  every  man  must  be  thinking 
what  he  is  about,  and  be  able  to  produce  a  clear  reason, 
and,  as  it  were,  some  theory  of  the  meaning  of  his  own 
actions — which  everybody  must  know  is  nonsense.  For 
the  Rector  of  course  preached  just  because  it  was  in 
his  day's  work,  and  the  people  Would  have  been  much 
surprised,  though  possibly  much  relieved,  had  he  not 
done  so — feeling  that  to  listen  was  in  the  clay's  work 
too,  and  to  be  gone  through  doggedly  as  a  duty.  John 
thought  how  much  better  it  would  be  to  have  some  man 
who  could  preach  now  and  then  when  he  had  something 
to  say,  instead  of  troubling  the  Rector,  who,  good  man, 
had  nothing.  But  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  he  was 
thinking  this  consecutively  while  the  morning  went  on. 
It  flitted  through  his  mind  from  time  to  time  among 
his  many  thinkings  about  the  Compton  family  and  El- 
inor ;  poor  Nelly,  standing  upon  the  edge  of  that  pre- 
cipice and  the  helplessness  of  every  one  to  save  her,  and 
the  great  refrain  like  the  peal  of  an  organ  going  through 
everything,  "  None  other  that  fighteth  for  us  but  only 
Thou,  O  God."  Surely,  surely  to  prevent  this  sacritice 
He  would  interfere. 

She  turned  to  him  the  moment  they  were  out  of  the 
church  doors  with  that  same  look  of  eager  defiance  yet 
demand,  and  as  soon  as  they  left  the  road,  the  first  step 
into  the  copse,  putting  out  her  hand  to  call  his  atten- 
tion :  "  You  said  I  could  not  put  up  with  it,  a  girl  so 
well-brought-up  as  I  am.  What  is  it  a  well-brought-up 
girl  can't  put  up  with  ?  A  disorderly  house,  late  hours, 
and  so  forth,  hateful  to  the  well-brought-up  ?  What  is 
it,  what  is  it,  John  ?  " 

"  Have  you  been  thinking  of  that  all  through  the 
morning  prayers  ?  "  he  said. 

"Yes,  I  have  been  thinking  about  it.  What  did  you 
expect  me  to  think  about  ?  Is  there  anything  else  so 
important  ?  Mr.  Hudson's  sermon,  perhaps,  Avhich  I 
have  heard  before,  which  I  suppose  you  listened  to," 
she  said,  with  a  troubled  laugh. 

"I  did  a  little,  wondering  how  a  good  man  like  that 
could  go  on  doing  it ;  and  there  were  other  things ' 


44  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  SLINOR. 

John  did  not  like  to  say  what  it  was  which  was  still 
throbbing  through  the  air  to  him,  and  through  his  own 
being. 

"Nothing  that  is  of  so  much  moment  to  me  :  come 
back,  John,  to  the  well-brought-up  girl." 

"  You  think  that's  a  poor  sort  of  description,  Elinor  ; 
so  it  is.  You  are  of  course  a  great  deal  more  than  that. 
Still  it's  what  one  can  turn  to  most  easily.  You  don't 
know  what  life  is  in  a  sort  of  fast  house,  where  there  is 
nothing  thought  of  but  amusement  or  where  it's  a  con- 
stant round  of  race  meetings,  yachting,  steeplechases — 
I  don't  know  if  men  still  ride  steeplechases — I  mean 
that  sort  of  thing  :  Monte  Carlo  in  the  winter  :  betting 
all  the  year  round — if  not  on  one  thing  then  on  another  ; 
expedients  to  raise  money,  for  money's  always  wanted. 
You  don't  know — how  can  you  know  ? — what  goes  on  in 
a  fast  life." 

"  Don't  you  see,  John,"  she  cried,  eagerly,  "  that  all 
that,  if  put  in  a  different  way  not  to  their  prejudice,  if 
put  in  the  right  way  would  sound  delightful  ?  There 
is  no  harm  in  these  things  at  all.  Betting's  not  a  sin 
in  the  Bible  any  more  than  races  are.  Don't  you  see 
it's  only  the  abuse  of  them  that's  wrong?  One  might 
ruin  one's  health,  I  believe,  with  tea,  which  is  the  most 
righteous  thing  !  I  should  like  above  all  things  a  yacht, 
say  in  the  Mediterranean,  and  to  go  to  Monte  Carlo, 
which  is  a  beautiful  place,  and  where  there  is  the  best 
music  in  the  world,  besides  the  gambling.  I  should  liko 
even  to  see  the  gambling  once  in  a  way,  for  the  fun  of 
the  thing.  You  don't  frighten  me  at  all.  I  have  been 
a  fortnight  at  Lady  Mariamue's,  and  the  continual  '  go' 
was  delightful;  there  was  never  a  dull  moment.  As  for 
expedients  to  raise  money,  there " 

"To  be  sure — old  Prestwich  is  as  rich  as  Croesus — or 
was,"  said  John,  with  significance,  "  but  you  are  not 
going  to  live  with  Lady  Mariamne,  I  suppose." 

"  Oh,  John  !  "  she  cried,  "  oh,  John  !  "  suddenly  seiz- 
ing him  by  the  arm,  clasping  her  hands  on  it  in  the 
pretty  way  of  eai'nestness  she  had,  though  one  hand 
held  her  parasol,  which  was  inconvenient.  The  soft 


THE  MARRIAGE   <)!•'  EL1XOK.  45 

face  was  suffused  with  rosy  colour,  so  different  from  the 
angry  red,  the  flush  of  love  and  tenderness — her  eyes 
swam  in  liquid  light,  looking  up  with  mingled  happiness 
and  entreaty  to  John's  face.  "Fancy  what  he  says, 
that  he  will  not  object  to  come  here  for  half  the  year  to 
let  me  be  with  my  mother  !  Remember  what  be  is,  a 
man  of  fashion,  and  fond  of  the  world,  and  of  going  out 
and  all  that.  He  has  consented  to  come,  nay,  he  almost 
offered  to  come  for  six  months  in  the  year  to  be  with 
mamma." 

"  Good  heavens,"  cried  John  to  himself,  "  he  must 
indeed  be  down  on  his  luck  !  "  but  what  he  said  was, 
"  Does  your  mother  know  of  this,  Elinor  ?" 

"  I  have  not  told  her  yet.  I  have  reserved  it  to  hear 
first  what  you  had  to  say  :  and  so  far  as  I  can  make  out 
you  have  nothing  at  all  to  say,  only  general  things, 
disapproval  in  the  general.  What  should  you  say  if  I 
told  you  that  he  disapproves  too  ?  He  said  himself 
that  there  had  been  too  much  of  all  that — that  he  had 
backed  something — isn't  that  what  you  say? — backed  it 
at  odds,  and  stood  to  win  what  he  calls  a  pot  of  money. 
But  after  that  was  decided — for  he  said  he  could  not  be 
off  bets  that  were  made — never  any  more.  Now  that  I 
know  you  have  nothing  more  to  say  my  heart  is  free, 
and  I  can  tell  you.  He  has  never  really  liked  that  sort 
of  life,  but  was  led  into  it  when  he  was  very  young. 
And  now  as  soon  as — we  are  together,  you  know  "- 
she  looked  so  bright,  so  sweet  in  the  happiness  of  her 
love,  that  John  could  have  flung  her  from  his  arms, 
and  felt  that  she  insulted  him  by  that  clinging  hold — 
"  he  means  to  turn  entirely  to  serious  things,  and  to  go 
into  politics,  John." 

"  Oh,  he  is  going  into  politics  !  " 

"Of  course,  on  the  people's  side — to  do  everything 
for  them — Home  Rule,  and  all  that  is  best  :  to  see  that 
they  are  heard  in  Parliament,  and  have  their  wants  at- 
tended to,  instead  of  jobs  and  corruption  everywhere. 
So  you  will  see,  John,  that  if  he  has  been  fast,  and  gone 
a  little  too  far,  and  been  very  much  mixed  up  in  the 
Turf,  and  all  that,  it  was  only  in  the  exuberance  of 


46  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  EL1SOR. 

youth,  liking  the  fun  of  it,  as  I  feel  I  should  myself. 
But  that  now,  now  all  that  is  to  be  changed  when  he 
steps  into  settled,  responsible  life.  I  should  not  have 
told  you  if  YOU  had  repeated  the  lies  that  people  say. 
But  as  you  did  not,  but  only  found  fault  with  him  for 
being  fast " 

"  Then  you  have  heard — what  people  say  ?  "  He 
shifted  his  arm  a  little,  so  that  she  instinctively  per- 
ceived that  the  affectionate  clasp  of  her  hands  was  no 
longer  agreeable  to  him,  and  his  face  seemed  suddenly 
to  have  become  a  blank  page,  absolutely  devoid  of  all 
expression.  He  kicked  vigorously  at  one  of  the  hil- 
locks he  had  stumbled  against,  as  if  he  thought  he 
could  dislodge  it  and  get  it  out  of  his  way. 

"  Mariamne  told  me  there  was  a  lot  of  lies— that 
people  said — I  am  so  glad,  John,  oh !  so  thankful,  that 
you  have  not  repeated  any  of  them  ;  for  now  I  can  feel 
you  are  my  own  good  John,  as  you  always  were,  not  a 
slanderer  of  any  one,  and  we  can  go  on  being  fond  of 
each  other  like  brother  and  sister.  I  have  told  him  you 
have  been  the  best  of  brothers  to  me." 

"Oh,"  said  John,  without  a  sign  of  wonder  or  ad- 
miration in  him,  with  a  dead  blank  in  his  face. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  he  said  ?  'Then  I  know  Le 
must  be  a  capital  fellow,  Ne — 

"Not  Nell}',"  said  poor  John,  with  a  foolish  pang 
that  seemed  to  rend  his  heart,  Oh,  if  that  scamp, 
that  cheat,  that  low  betting,  card-playing  rascal  wore 
but  here  !  he  would  capital-fellow  him.  To  take  not 
herself  only,  but  the  dear  pet  name  that  she  had  said 
was  only  John's 

"He  says  Nell  sometimes,  John.  Oh,  not  Nelly- 
Nelly  is  for  you  only.  I  would  never  let  him  call  me 
that.  But  they  are  all  for  short  names,  one  syllable — 
he  is  Phil,  and  Mariamne,  well  at  home  they  call  her 
Jew — horrible,  isn't  it? — because  she  was  called  after 
some  Jewess  ;  but  somehow  it  seems  queer  when  you 
see  her,  so  fair  and  frizzy,  like  anything  but  a  Jew." 

"  So  I  have  got  one  letter  to  myself,"  said  John.  "I 
don't  know  that  I  think  that  worth  very  much,  however. 


THE  MAUPJAGE  OF  ELIXOR.  47 

And  so  far  as  I  can  see,  you  seem  to  think  everything 
very  fine— the  bets,  perhaps,  and  the  rows  and  all." 

'•  Well  they  are,  you  know,"  said  Elinor,  -with  a  laugh, 
"  to  a  little  country  mouse  like  me  that  has  never  seen 
anything.  There  is  always  something  going  on,  and 
their  slang  way  of  speaking  is  certainly  very  amusing  if 
it  is  not  at  all  dignified,  and  they  have  such  droll  ways 
of  looking  at  things.  All  so  entirely  different  !  Don't 
you  know,  John,  sometimes  in  one's  life  one  longs  for 
something  to  be  quite  different.  A  complete  change, 
any  tiling  new." 

"  If  that  is  what  you  long  for,  no  doubt  you  will  get 
it,  Elinor." 

"  Well !  "  she  cried,  "I  have  had  the  other  for  tliree- 
and-twenty  years,  long  enough  to  have  exhausted  it, 
don't  you  think  ?  but  I  don't  mean  to  throw  it  over,  oh, 
no !  Coming  back  to  mamma  makes  the  arrangement 
perfect.  Probably  in  the  end  it  is  the  old  life,  the  life 
I  was  brought  up  in  that  I  shall  like  best  in  the  long 
run.  That  is  one  thing  of  being  well  brought  up. 
Phil  will  laugh  till  he  cries  when  I  tell  him  of  your 
description  of  me  as  a  well-brought-up  girl." 

John  set  his  teeth  as  he  walked  or  rather  stumbled 
along  by  her  side,  catching  in  the  roots  of  the  trees  as 
he  had  never  done  before,  and  swearing  under  his 
breath.  Her  flutter  of  talk  running  on,  delighted,  full  of 
laughter  and  softness,  as  if  he  had  fully  declared  his 
satisfaction  and  was  interested  in  every  detail,  kept 
John  in  a  state  of  suppressed  fury  which  made  his 
countenance  dark,  and  almost  took  the  sight  from  his 
He  did  not  know  ho\v  to  escape  from  that  false 
position,  nor  did  she  give  him  time,  she  had  so  much 
to  say.  Mrs.  Dennistoun  looked  anxiously  at  the  pair 
as  they  came  up  through  the  copse  to  the  level  of  the 
cottage.  There  were  no  enclosures  in  that  primitive 
place.  From  the  copse  you  came  straight  into  the 
garden  with  its  banks  of  flowers.  She  was  seated  near 
the  cottagte  door  in  a  corner  sheltered  from  the  sun, 
with  a  number  of  books  about  her.  But  I  don't  think 
she  had  read  anything  except  some  portions  of  the  les- 


48  THE  XM;I;IA<;I-;  OF  ELINOR. 

eons  in  the  morning  service.  She  had  been  sitting 
with  her  eyes  vaguely  fixed  upon  the  horizon  and  her 
hands  clasped  iu  her  l;ip,  and  ;i  heavy  shadow  like  an 
overhanging  cloud  upon  her  mind.  But  when  she  heard 
Elinor's  voice  approaching  so  gay  and  tuneful  her 
heart  rose  a  little.  John  evidently  could  have  had 
nothing'  very  bad  to  say.  Elinor  had  been  satisfied 
with  the  morning.  Mrs.  Denuistoun  had  expected  to 
see  them  come  back  estranged  and  silent.  The  con- 
clusion she  drew  was  entirely  satisfactory.  After  all 
John  must  have  been  moved  solely  by  general  disap- 
proval, which  is  so  very  different  from  the  dreadful 
hints  and  warnings  that  might  mean  any  criminality. 
Elinor  was  talking  to  him  as  freely  as  she  had  done 
before  this  spectre  rose.  It  must,  Mrs.  Dennistoun 
concluded,  be  all  right. 

It  was  not  till  he  was  going  away  that  she  had  an  op- 
portunity of  talking  with  him  alone.  Her  satisfaction, 
it  must  be  allowed,  had  been  a  little  subdued  by  John's 
demeanour  during  the  afternoon  and  evening.  But  Mrs. 
Denuistoun  had  said  to  herself  that  there  might  be 
other  ways  of  accounting  for  this.  She  had  long  had  a 
fancy  that  John  was  more  interested  in  Elinor  than  he 
had  confessed  himself  to  be.  It  had  been  her  convic- 
tion that  as  soon  as  he  felt  it  warrantable,  as  soon  as  he 
was  sufficiently  well-established,  and  his  practice  se- 
cured, he  would  probably  declare  himself,  with,  she 
feared,  no  particular  issue  so  far  as  Elinor  was  con- 
cerned. And  perhaps  he  was  disappointed,  poor  fellow, 
which  was  a  very  natural  explanation  of  his  glum  looks. 
But  at  breakfast  on  Monday  Elinor  announced  her  in- 
tention of  driving  her  cousin  to  the  station,  and  went 
out  to  see  that  the  pony  was  harnessed,  an  operation 
which  took  some  time,  for  the  pony  was  out  in  the  field 
and  had  to  be  caught,  and  the  man  of  all  work,  who 
had  a  hundred  affairs  to  look  after,  had  to  be  caught 
too  to  perform  this  duty  ;  which  sometimes,  however, 
Elinor  performed  herself,  but  always  with  some  ex- 
penditure of  time.  Mrs.  Dennistoun  seized  the  oppor- 
tunity, plunging  at  once  into  the  all-important  subject. 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  49 

"  You  seemed  to  get  on  all  right  together  yesterday, 
John,  so  I  suppose  you  found  that  after  all  there  was 
not  very  much  to  say." 

"I  was  not  allowed  to  say anything.  You 

mean " 

"  Oh,  John,  Johu,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  after 
all " 

"Aunt  Ellen,"  he  said,  "  stop  it  if  you  can  ;  if  there 
is  any  means  in  the  world  by  which  you  can  stop  it,  do 
so.  I  can't  bring  accusations  against  the  man,  for  I 
couldn't  prove  them.  I  only  know  what  everybody 
knows.  He  is  not  a  man  fit  for  Elinor  to  marry.  He 
is  not  fit  to  touch  the  tie  of  her  shoe." 

"  Oh,  don't  trouble  me  with  your  superlatives,  John. 
Elinor  is  a  good  girl  and  a  clever  girl,  but  not  a  lady  of 
romance.  Is  there  anything  really  against  him  ?  Tell 
me,  for  goodness'  sake  !  Even  with  these  few  words  you 
have  made  me  very  unhappy,"  Mrs.  Dennistoun  said,  in 
a  half  resentful  tone. 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  said  the  unfortunate  man,  "  I  can't 
bring  accusations,  as  I  tell  you.  He  is  simply  a  scamp 
— that  is  all  I  know." 

"  A  scamp  ! "  said  Mrs.  Dennistoim,  with  a  look  of 
alarm.  "  But  then  that  is  a  word  that  has  so  many 
meanings.  A  scamp  may  be  only  a  careless  fellow,  nice 
in  his  way.  That  is  not  enough  to  break  off  a  marriage 
for.  And,  John,  as  you  have  said  so  much,  }TOU  must 
say  more." 

"I  have  no  more  to  say,  that's  all  I  know.  Inquire 
what  the  Hudsons  have  heard.  Stop  it  if  you  can." 

"  Oh,  dear,  dear,  here  is  Elinor  back  already,"  Mr*. 
Dennistoun  said. 


50  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELIXOR. 


CHAPTEK  V. 

THE  next  time  that  John's  presence  was  required  at 
the  cottage  was  for  the  signing  of  the  very  simple  set- 
tlements ;  which,  as  there  was  nothing  or  next  to  noth- 
ing in  the  power  of  the  man  to  settle  upon  his  wife, 
were  easy  enough.  He  met  Mr.  Lynch,  who  was  Mrs. 
Dennistoun's  "  man  of  business,"  and  a  sharp  London 
solicitor,  who  was  for  the  husband.  Elinor's  fortune 
was  five  thousand  pounds,  no  more,  not  counting  her 
expectations  from  him,  which  were  left  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. It  was  a  very  small  matter  altogether,  and  one 
which  the  smart  solicitor  who  was  in  Mr.  Compton's 
interest  spoke  of  with  a  certain  contempt,  as  who 
should  say  he  was  not  in  the  habit  of  being  disturbed 
and  brought  to  the  country  for  any  such  trifle.  It  was 
now  August — not  a  time  when  any  man  was  supposed 
to  be  available  for  matters  like  these.  Mr.  Lynch  was 
just  about  starting  for  his  annual  holiday,  but  came,  at 
no  small  personal  inconvenience,  to  do  his  duty  by  the 
poor  girl  whom  he  had  known  all  his  life.  John  and 
he  travelled  to  the  cottage  together,  and  their  aspect 
was  not  cheerful.  "Did  you  ever  hear,"  said  Mr. 
Lynch,  "  such  a  piece  of  folly  as  this — a  man  with  no 
character  at  all  ?  This  is  what  it  is  to  leave  a  girl  in 
the  sole  care  of  her  mother.  What  does  a  woman 
know  about  such  things  ?  " 

"I  don't  think  it  was  her  mother's  fault,"  said  John, 
anxious  to  do  justice  all  round.  "  Elinor  is  very  head- 
strong, and  when  she  has  made  up  her  mind  to  a 
thing " 

"  A  bit  of  a  girl !  "  said  Mr.  Lynch,  contemptuously. 
He  was  an  old  bachelor  and  knew  nothing  about  the 
subject,  as  the  reader  will  perceive.  "  Her  mother 
ought  never  to  have  permitted  it  for  a  moment.  She 
should  have  put  down  her  foot :  and  then  Miss  Elinor 
would  soon  have  come  to  reason.  What  I  wonder  is 
the  ruffian's  own  motives?  for  it  can't  be  a  little  bit  of 


THE  MARRIAGE 'OF  ELINOR.  51 

money  like  that.  Five  thousand's  a  mere  mouthful  to 
such  a  man  as  he  is.  He'll  get  rid  of  it  all  in  a  week." 

"  It  must  be  tied  up  as  tight  as  possible,"  said 
John. 

Here  Mr.  Lynch  faltered  a  little.  "  She  has  got  an 
idea  into  her  head,  with  the  intention,  I  don't  doubt, 
of  defrauding  herself  if  she  can.  He  has  got  some  in- 
vestment for  it,  it  appears.  He  is  on  the  board  of 
some  company — a  pretty  board  to  take  in  such  a  fel- 
low? But  the  Honourable  is  always  something,  I  sup- 
pose." 

John  did  not  say  the  (/^-Honourable,  though  it  trem- 
bled on  the  edge  of  his  tongue.  "  But  you  will  not 
permit  that  ?  "  he  said. 

';  No,  no  ;  we  will  not  permit  it,"  said  Mr.  Lynch, 
with  an  emphasis  on  the  negative  which  sounded  like 
failing  resolution. 

"  That  would  be  giving  the  lamb  to  the  wolf  with  a 
vengeance." 

"  Exactly  what  I  said  ;  exactly  what  I  said.  I  am 
very  glad.  Mr.  Tatham,'  that  yon  take  the  same  view." 

"There  is  but  one  view  to  be  taken,"  said  John. 
"  He  must  not  have  the  slightest  power  over  her 
money.  It  must  be  tied  up  as  tight  as  the  law  can  do 
it;  not  that  I  think  it  of  the  least  consequence,"  he 
added.  "  Of  course,  he  will  get  it  all  from  her  one 
way  or  another.  Law's  but  a  poor  barrier  against  a 
determined  man." 

"I'm  glad  you  see  that  too,"  said  Mr.  Lynch,  "and 
you  might  say  a  determined  woman  :  for  she  has  set 
her  mind  on  this,  and  we'll  have  a  nice  business  with 
her,  I  can  see." 

"A  bit  of  a  girl !  "  said  John,  with  a  laugh,  echoing 
the  previous  sentiment. 

"  That's  very  true,"  said  the  old  lawyer  ;  "  and  still 
I  think  her  mother — but  I  don't  put  any  great  confi- 
dence in  my  own  power  to  resist  Elinor.  Poor  little 
thing,  I've  known  her  since  she  was  that  high  ;  indeed, 
I  may  say  I  knew  her  before  she  was  born.  And  you 
are  a  relation,  Mr.  Tatham  ?  " 


52  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  SLWOtt. 

"'Third  or  fourth  cousin." 

"  But  still,  more  intimate  than  a  person  unconnected 
with  them,  and  able  to  speak  your  'mind  more  freely. 
I  wonder  now  that  you  never  said  anything.  But  in 
family  masters  sometimes  one  is  very  reluctant  to  in- 
terfere." 

"  I  said  everything  I  could  say,  not  to  offend  them 
mortally  ;  but  I  could  only  tell  them  the  common  talk 
of  society.  I  told  my  aunt  he  was  a  scamp  :  but  after 
the  first  shock  I  am  not  sure  that  she  thought  that  was 
any  such  bad  thing.  It  depended  upon  the  sense  you 
put  upon  the  word,  she  said." 

"  Oh,  women,  women  !  "  said  Mr.  Lynch.  "  That's 
their  way — a  reformed  rake  makes  the  best  husband. 
It's  an  old-fashioned  sentiment,  but  it's  in  the  back- 
ground of  their  minds,  a  sort  of  tradition  that  they 
can't  shake  off — or  else  the  poor  fellow  has  had  so 
many  disadvantages,  and  they  think  they  can  make  it 
all  right.  It's  partly  ignorance  and  partly  vanity.  But 
they  are  all  the  same,  and  their  ways  in  the  matter  of 
marriage  are  not  to  be  made  out." 

"You  have  a  great  deal  of  experience." 

"  Experience — oh,  don't  speak  of  it !  "  said  the  old 
gentleman.  "A  man  has  a  certain  idea  of  the  value  of 
money,  however  great  a  fool  he  may  be,  but  the 
women " 

"  And  yet  they  are  said  to  stick  to  money,  and  to 
be  respectful  of  it  beyond  anything  but  a  miser.  I 
have  myself  remarked — 

"In  small  matters,"  said  Mr.  Lynch,  "  in  detail — six- 
pences to  railway  portei'S  and  that  sort  of  thing —  so 
people  say  at  least.  But  a  sum  of  money  on  paper  1ms 
no  effect  on  a  woman,  she  will  sign  it  away  with  a  wave 
of  her  hand.  It  doesn't  touch  their  imagination.  Five 
pounds  in  her  pocket  is  far  more  than  five  thousand  on 
paper,  to  Elinor,  for  instance.  I  wish,"  cried  the  old 
gentleman,  with  a  little  spitefulness,  "  that  this  Mar- 
ried Women's  Property  Bill  would  push  on  and  get  itself 
made  law.  It  would  save  us  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  and 
perhaps  convince  the  world  at  the  last  how  little  able 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  53 

they  are  to  be  trusted  with  property.  A  nice  mess  they 
will  make  of  it,  and  plenty  of  employment  for  young- 
solicitors,"  he  said,  rubbing  his  hands. 

For  this  was  before  that  important  bill  was  passed, 
which  has  not  had  (like  so  many  other  bills)  the  disas- 
trous consequences  which  Mr.  Lynch  foresaw. 

They  were  met  at  the  station  by  the  pony  carriage, 
and  at  the  door  by  Elinor  herself,  who  came  flying  out 
to  meet  them.  She  seized  Mr.  Lynch  by  both  arms, 
for  he  was  a  little  old  man,  and  she  was  bigger  than  he 
was. 

"Now  you  will  remember  what  I  said,"  she  cried  in 
his  ear,  yet  not  so  low  but  that  John  heard  it  too. 

"  You  are  a  little  witch  ;  you  mustn't  insist  upon  any- 
thing so  foolish.  Leave  all  that  to  me,  my  dear,"  said 
Mr.  Lynch.  "What  do  you  know  about  business? 
You  must  leave  it  to  me  and  the  other  gentleman,  who 
I  suppose  is  here,  or  coming." 

"  He  is  here,  but  I  don't  care  for  him.  I  care  only 
for  you.  There  are  such  advantages  :  and  I  do  know  a 
great  deal  about  business  ;  and,"  she  said,  with  her 
mouth  close  to  the  old  lawyer's  ear,  "  it  will  please  Phil 
so  much  if  I  show  my  confidence  in  him,  and  in  the 
things  with  which  he  has  to  do." 

"  It  will  not  please  him  so  much  if  the  thing  bursts, 
and  you  are  left  without  a  penny,  my  dear." 

Elinor  laughed.  "  I  don't  suppose  he  will  mind  a 
bit :  he  cares  nothing  for  money.  But  I  do,"  she  said. 
"You  know  you  always  say  women  love  acquisition. 
I  want  good  interest,  and  of  course  with  Phil  on  it,  it 
must  be  safe  for  me." 

'•'  Oh,  that  makes  it  like  the  Bank  of  England,  you 
think  !  but  I  don't  share  your  confidence,  my  pretty 
Elinor.  I'm  an  old  fellow.  No  Phil  in  the  world  has 
any  charm  for  me.  You  must  trust  me  to  do  what  I 
feel  is  best  for  you.  And  Mr.  Tatham  here  is  quite  of 
my  opinion." 

"  Oh,  John  !  he  is  sure  to  be  against  me,"  said  Eli- 
nor, with  an  angry  glimmer  in  her  eyes.  She  had  not 
as  yet  taken  any  notice  of  him  while  she  welcomed  with 


54  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

such  warmth  his  old  companion.  And  John  had  stood 
by  offering  no  greeting,  with  his  bag  in  his  hand.  But 
when  she  said  this  the  quick  feeling  girl  was  seized 
with  compunction.  She  turned  from  Mr.  Lynch  and 
held  out  both  her  hands  to  her  cousin.  "John,  I 
didn't  mean  that ;  it  is  only  that  I  am  excited  and 
cross.  And  don't,  oh,  don't  go  against  me,"  she  cried. 

"  I  never  did,  and  never  will,  Elinor,"  he  said 
gravely.  Then  he  asked,  after  a  moment,  "Is  Mr. 
Compton  here  ?  " 

"No  ;  how  could  he  be  here  ?  Three  gentlemen  in 
the  cottage  is  enough  to  overwhelm  us  already.  Mr. 
Sharp,  fortunately,  can't  stay,"  she  added,  lowering  her 
voice  ;  "he  has  to  be  driven  back  to  the  station  to 
catch  the  last  express.  And  it  is  August,"  she  said 
with  a  laugh  ;  "  you  forget  the  15th.  Now,  could  Phil 
be  anywhere  but  where  there  is  grouse  ?  You  shall 
have  some  to  dinner  to-night  that  fell  by  his  gun. 
That  should  mollify  you,  for  I  am  sure  you  never  got 
grouse  at  the  cottage  before  in  August.  Mamma 
would  as  soon  think  of  buying  manna  for  you  to  eat." 

"  I  think  it  would  have  been  more  respectful,  Eli- 
nor, if  he  had  been  here.  What  is  grouse  to  you  ?  " 

"  Then  I  don't  think  anything  of  the  kind,"  cried 
Elinor.  "  He  is  much  better  away.  And  I  assure  you, 
John,  I  never  mean  to  put  myself  in  competition  with 
the  grouse." 

The  old  lawyer  had  gone  into  the  drawing-room, 
where  Mrs.  Dennistoun  was  holding  parley  with  Mr. 
Sharp.  Elinor  and  John  were  standing  alone  in  the 
half  light  of  the  summer  evening,  the  sun  down,  the 
depths  of  the  combe  below  falling  into  faint  mist,  but 
the  sunset-tinted  clouds  still  floating  like  a  vapor  made 
of  roses  upon  the  clearness  of  the  blue  above.  "  Come 
and  take  a  turn  through  the  copse,"  said  John.  "  They 
don't  want  either  of  us  indoors." 

She  went  with  a  momentary  reluctance  and  a  glance 
back  at  the  bow-window  of  the  drawing-room,  from 
which  the  sound  of  voices  issued.  "  Don't  you  think  I 
should  be  there  to  keep  them  up  to  the  mark  ?  "  she 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  55 

said,  half  laughing.  And  then,  "  Well,  yes — as  you 
are  going  to  Switzerland  too.  I  think  you  might  have 
stayed  and  seen  nae  married  after  all,  and  made  acquaint- 
ance with  Phil." 

"  I  thought  I  should  have  met  him  here  to-day, 
Elinor." 

"Now,  how  could  you  ?  You  know  the  accommoda- 
tion of  the  cottage  just  as  well  as  I  do.  We  have  two 
spare  rooms,  and  no  more." 

"  You  could  have  sent  me  out  somewhere  to  sleep. 
That  has  been  done  before  now." 

"  Oh,  John,  how  persistent  you  are,  and  worrying  ! 
When  I  tell  you  that  Phil  is  shooting,  as  everybody  of 
his  kind  is — do  you  think  I  want  him  to  give  up  all  the 
habits  of  his  life  ?  He  is  not  like  us :  we  adapt  our- 
selves: but  these  people  parcel  out  their  time  as  if  they 
were  in  a  trade,  don't  you  know  ?  So  long  in  London, 
so  long  abroad,  and  in  the  Highlands  for  the  grouse, 
and  somewhere  else  for  the  partridges,  or  they  would 
die." 

"  I  think  he  might  have  departed  from  that  routine 
once  in  a  way,  Elinor,  for  you." 

"  I  tell  you  again,  John,  I  shall  never  put  myself  in 
competition  " — Elinor  stopped  abruptly,  with  perhaps, 
he  thought,  a  little  glimmer  of  indignation  in  her  eyes. 
"I  hate  women  who  do  that  sort  of  thing,"  she  cried. 
"  'Give  up  your  cigar — or  me,'  as  I've  heard  girls  say. 
Such  an  unworthy  thing !  When  one  accepts  a  man 
one  accepts  him  as  he  stands,  with  all  his  habits. 
What  should  I  think  of  him  if  he  said,  '  Give  up  your  tea 
— or  me  ! '  I  should  laugh  in  his  face  and  throw  him 
overboard  without  a  pause." 

"  You  would  never  look  at  tea  again  as  long  as  you 
lived  if  he  did  not  like  it ;  I  suppose  that  is  what  you 
mean,  Elinor  ?  " 

"Perhaps  if  I  found  that  out,  afterwards  ;  but  to  be 
given  the  choice  beforehand,  never!  After  all,  you 
don't  half  know  me,  John." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  he  said,  gravely,  They  had  left  the 
garden  behind  in  its  blaze  of  flowers,  and  strayed  oft 


56  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

into  the  subdued  twilight  of  the  copse,  where  every- 
thing was  in  a  half  tone  of  greenness  and  shadow  and 
waning  light.  "  There  are  always  new  lights  arising  on 
a  many-sided  creature  like  you — and  that  makes  one 
think.  Do  you  know  you  are  not  at  all  the  person  to 
take  a  great  disappointment  quietly,  if  that  should 
happen  to  come  to  you  in  your  life  ?  " 

"A  great  disappointment?  "  she  said,  looking  up  at 
him  with  a  wondering  glance.  Then  he  thought  the 
color  paled  a  little  in  her  face.  "No,"  she  said,  "  I 
don't  suppose  I  should  take  it  quietly.  Who  does  ?  " 

"  Oh,  many  people — people  with  less  determination 
and  more  patience  than  you.  You  are  not  very  patient 
by  nature,  Elinor." 

"I  never  said  I  was." 

"  And  though  no  one  would  give  up  more  generously, 
as  a  voluntary  matter,  you  could  not  bear  being  made 
a  nonentity  of,  or  put  in  a  secondary  place." 

"I  should  not  like  it,  I  suppose." 

"You  would  give  everything,  flinging  it  away  ;  but 
to  have  all  your  sacrifices  taken  for  granted,  your  tastes 
made  of  no  account — 

There  was  no  doubt  now  that  she  had  grown  pale. 
"  May  I  ask  what  all  these  investigations  into  my  char- 
acter mean?  I  never  was  so  anatomized  before." 

"It  was  only  to  say  that  you  are  not  a  good  subject 
for  this  kind  of  experiment,  Elinor.  I  don't  see  you 
putting  up  with  things,  making  the  best  of  everything, 
submitting  to  have  your  sense  of  right  and  wrong  out- 
raged perhaps.  Some  women  would  not  be  much  dis- 
turbed by  that.  They  would  put  off  the  responsibility 
and  feel  it  their  duty  to  accept  whatever  was  put  be- 
fore them.  But  you — it  would  be  a  different  matter 
with  you." 

"I  should  hope  so,  if  I  was  ever  exposed  to  such 
dangers.  But  now  may  I  know  what  you  are  driving 
at,  John,  for  you  have  some  meaning  in  what  you  say  !  " 

He  took  her  hand  and  drew  it  through  his  arm.  He 
was  more  moved  than  he  wished  to  show.  "  Only  this, 
Elinor  " — he  said. 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  57 

"Ob,  John,  will  you  never  call  me  Nelly  any  more?" 

"  Only  this,  Nelly,  my  little  Nelly,  never  mine  again 
— and  that  never  was  mine,  except  in  my  silly  thought. 
Only  this  :  that  if  you  have  the  least  doubt,  the  smallest 
flutter  of  ail  uncertainty,  just  enough  to  make  you  hold 
your  breath  for  a  moment,  oh,  my  dear  girl,  stop ! 
Don't  go  on  with  it ;  pause  until  you  can  make  sure." 

"  John  !  "  she  forced  her  arm  from  his  with  an  in- 
dignant movement.  "  Oh,  how  do  you  dare  to  say  it  ?  " 
she  said.  "  Doubt  of  Mr.  Compton  !  Uncertainty 
about  Phil !  "  She  laughed  out,  and  the  echo  seemed 
to  ring  into  all  the  recesses  of  the  trees.  "  I  would  be 
much  more  ready  to  doubt  myself,"  she  said. 

"  Doubt  yourself ;  that  is  what  I  mean.  Think  if 
you  are  not  deceiving  yourself.  I  don't  think  you  are 
so  very  sure  as  you  believe  you  are,  Nelly.  You  don't 
feel  so  certain " 

"Do  you  know  that  you  are  insulting  me,  John? 
You  say  as  much  as  that  I  am  a  fool  carried  away  by  a 
momentary  enthusiasm,  with  no  real  love,  no  true  feel- 
ing in  me,  tempted,  pei'haps,  as  Mrs.  Hudson  thinks,  by 
the  Honourable  !  "  Her  lip  quivered,  and  the  fading- 
colour  came  back  in  a  rush  to  her  face.  "  It  is  hard 
enough  to  have  a  woman  like  that  think  it,  who  ought 
to  know  better,  who  has  always  known  me — but  you, 
John  ! " 

"  You  may  be  sure,  Elinor,  that  I  did  not  put  it  on 
that  ground." 

"No,  perhaps:  but  on  ground  not  much  more  re- 
spectful to  me — perhaps  that  I  have  been  fascinated  by 
a  handsome  man,  which  is  not  considered  derogatory. 
Oh,  John,  a  girl  does  not  give  herself  away  on  an  argu- 
ment like  that.  I  may  be  hasty  and  self-willed  and 
impatient,  as  you  say  ;  but  when  you — love  !  "  Her 
face  flushed  like  a  rose,  so  that  even  in  the  grey  of  the 
evening  it  shone  out  like  one  of  the  clouds  full  of  sun- 
set that  still  lingered  on  the  sky.  A  few  quick  tears 
followed,  the  natural  consequence  of  her  emotion. 
And  then  she  turned  to  him  with  the  ineffable  conde- 
scension of  one  farther  advanced  in  life  stooping  sweetly 


-^  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

to  his  ignorance.  "  You  have  not  yet  come  to  the 
moment  in  your  experience  when  you  can  understand 
that,  dear  John." 

Oh,  the  insight  and  the  ignorance,  the  knowledge 
and  the  absence  of  all  perception !  He,  too,  laughed 
out,  as  she  had  done,  with  a  sense  of  the  intolerable 
ridicule  and  folly  and  mistake.  "Perhaps  that's  how 
it  is,"  he  said. 

Elinor  looked  at  him  gravely,  in  an  elder-sisterly, 
profoundly-investigating  way,  and  then  she  took  his 
arm  quietly  and  turned  towards  home.  "  I  shall  forget 
what  you  have  said,  and  you  will  forget  that  you  ever 
said  it;  and  now  we  will  go  home,  John,  and  be  just 
the  same  dear  friends  as  before."* 

"Will  you  promise  me,"  he  said,  "that  whatever 
happens,  without  pride,  or  recollection  of  what  I've 
been  so  foolish  as  to  say,  in  any  need  or  emei-gency,  or 
whenever  you  want  anything,  or  if  you  should  be  in 
trouble — trouble  comes  to  everybody  in  this  life — you 
will  remember  what  you  have  said  just  now,  and  send 
for  your  cousin  John?  " 

Her  whole  face  beamed  out  in  one  smile,  she  clasped 
her  other  hand  round  his  arm  ;  "I  should  have  done 
it  without  being  asked,  without  ever  doubting  for  a 
moment,  because  it  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world.  Whom  should  I  turn  to  else  if  not  to  my  di-ar 
old —  But  call  me  Nelly,  John." 

"  Dear  little  Nelly ! "  he  said  with  faltering  voice, 
"  then  that  is  a  bargain." 

She  held  up  her  cheek  to  him,  and  he  kissed  it 
solemnly  in  the  shadow  of  the  little  young  oak  that 
fluttered  its  leaves  wistfully  in  the  breeze  that  was  get- 
ting up — and  then  very  soberly,  saying  little,  they 
walked  back  to  the  cottage.  He  was  going  abroad  lor 
his  vacation,  not  saying  to  himself  even  that  he  pre- 
ferred not  to  be  present  at  the  wedding,  but  resigning 
himself  to  the  necessity,  for  it  was  not  to  be  till  the 
middle  of  September,  and  it  would  be  breaking  up  his 
holiday  had  he  to  come  back  at  that  time.  So  this 
little  interview  was  a  leave-taking  as  well  as  a  solemn 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  59 

engagement  for  all  the  risks  and  dangers  of  life.  The 
pain  in  it,  after  that  very  sharp  moment  in  the  copse, 
was  softened  down  into  a  sadness  not  unsweet,  as  they 
came  silently  together  from  out  of  the  shadow  into  the 
quiet  hemisphere  of  sky  and  space,  which  was  over  the 
little  centre  of  the  cottage  with  its  human  glimmer  of 
fire  and  lights.  The  sky  was  unusually  clear,  and 
among  those  soft,  rose-tinted  clouds  of  the  sunset,  which 
were  no  clouds  at  all,  had  risen  a  young  crescent  of  a 
moon,  just  about  to  disappear,  too,  in  the  short  course 
of  one  of  her  earliest  nights.  They  lingered  for  a  mo- 
ment before  they  went  indoors.  The  depth  of  the 
combe  was  filled  with  the  growing  darkness,  but  the 
ridges  above  were  still  light  and  softly  edged  with  the 
silver  of  the  moon,  and  the  distant  road,  like  a  long, 
white  line,  came  conspicuously  into  sight,  winding  for 
a  little  way  along  the  hill-top  unsheltered,  before  it 
plunged  into  the  shadow  of  the  trees — the  road  that 
led  into  the  world,  by  which  they  should  both  depart 
presently  to  stray  into  such  different  ways. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  drawing-room  after  dinner  always  looked  cheer- 
ful. Perhaps  the  fact  that  it  was  a  sort  of  little  oasis 
in  the  desert,  and  that  the  light  from  those  windows 
shone  into  three  counties,  made  the  interior  more  cosy 
and  bright.  (There  are  houses  now  upon  every  knoll, 
and  the  wind  cannot  blow  on  Wiudyhill  for  the  quantity 
of  obstructions  it  meets  with.)  There  was  the  usual 
log  burning  on  the  hearth,  and  the  party  in  general 
kept  away  from  it,  for  the  night  was  warm.  Only  Mr. 
Sharp,  the  London  lawyer,  was  equal  to  bearing  the 
heat.  He  stood  with  his  back  to  it,  and  his  long  legs 
showing  against  the  glow  behind,  a  sharp-nosed,  long 
man  in  black,  who  had  immediately  suggested  Meph- 
istopheles  to  Elinor,  even  though  he  was  on  the 


60  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

Compton  side.  He  had  taken  his  coffee  after  dinner, 
and  now  he  stood  over  the  fire  slowly  sipping  a  cup  of 
tea.  There  was  a  look  of  acquisitiveness  about  him 
which  suggested  an  inclination  to  appropriate  anything 
from  the  unnecessary  heat  of  the  fire  to  the  equally 
unnecessary  tea.  But  Mr.  Sharp  had  been  on  the 
winning  side.  He  had  demonstrated  the  superior- 
sense  of  making  the  money — which  was  not  large 
enough  sum  to  settle — of  real  use  to  the  young  pair  by 
an  investment  which  would  increase  Mr.  Compton 's 
importance  in  his  company,  besides  producing  very 
good  dividends — much  better  dividends  than  would  be 
possible  if  it  were  treated  in  the  old-fashioned  way  by 
trustees.  This  was  how  the  bride  wished  it,  which  was 
the  most  telling  of  arguments:  and  surely,  to  insure 
good  interest  and  art  increase  of  capital  to  her,  through 
her  husband's  hands,  was  better  than  to  secure  some 
beggarly  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year  for  her  por- 
tion, though  without  any  risks  at  all. 

Mr.  Sharp  had  also  taken  great  pains  to  point  out 
that  there  were  only  three  brothers — one  an  invalid  and 
the  other  two  soldiers — between  Mr.  Phil  and  the  title, 
and  that  even  to  be  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Compton  was 
something  for  a  young  lady,  who  was,  if  he  might  vent- 
ure to  sfiv  so,  nobody — not  to  say  a  word  against  her 
charms.  Lord  St.  Serf  was  hourly  getting  an  old  man, 
and  the  chances  that  his  client  might  step  over  a  heca- 
tomb of  dead  relations  to  the  height  of  fortune  was  a 
thing  quite  worth  taking  into  account.  It  was  a  much 
better  argument,  however,  to  return  to  the  analogy  of 
other  poor  young  people,  where  the  bride's  little  fort- 
une would  be  put  into  the  husband's  business,  and 
thus  their  joint  advantage  considered.  Mr.  Sharp,  at 
the  same  time,  did  not  hesitate  to  express  politely  his 
opinion  that  to  call  him  down  to  the  country  for  a  dis- 
cussion which  could  have  been  earned  on  much  better 
in  one  or  other  of  their  respective  offices  was  a  most 
uncalled  for  proceeding,  especially  as  even  now  the 
other  side  was  wavering,  and  would  not  consent  to  con- 
clude matters,  and  make  the  signatures  that  were  ueces- 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF   ELIXQR.  61 

sary  at  once.  Mr.  Lynch,  it  must  be  allowed,  was  of 
the  same  opinion  too. 

"Your  country  is  a  little  bleak  at  uight/'  said  Mr. 
Sharp,  partially  mollified  by  a  good  dinner,  but  begin- 
ning to  remember  unpleasantly  the  cold  drive  in  a  rat- 
tletrap of  a  little  rustic  pony  carriage  over  the  hills  and 
hollows.  "  Do  you  really  remain  here  all  the  year '? 
How  wonderful?  Not  even  a  glimpse  of  the  world  in 
summer,  or  a  little  escape  from  the  chills  in  winter  ? 
How  brave  of  you  !  What  patience  and  powers  of  en- 
durance must  be  cultivated  in  that  way  !  " 

"One  would  think  Windyhill  was  Siberia  at  least," 
said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  laughing  ;  "  we  do  not  give  our- 
selves credit  for  all  these  fine  qualities." 

"Some  people  are  heroes — or  heroines — without 
knowing  it,"  said  Mr.  Sharp,  with  a  bow. 

"  And  yet,"  said  the  mother,  with  a  little  indignation, 
"  there  was  some  talk  of  Mr.  Compton  doing  me  the 
honour  to  share  my  hermitage  for  a  part  of  the  year." 

"  Mr.  Comptou  !  my  dear  lady  !  Mr.  Compton 
would  die  of  it  in  a  week,"  said  Mr.  Sharp. 

"I  am  quite  well  aware  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Denuistoun  ; 
and  she  added,  after  a  pause,  ':  so  should  I." 

"  What  a  change  it  will  be  for  your  daughter,"  said 
Mr.  Sharp.  "She  will  see  everything-  that  is  worth  see- 
ing. More  in  a  month  than  she  would  see  here  in  a 
dozen  years.  Trust  Mr.  Compton  for  knowing  all  that's 
worth  going  after.  They  have  all  an  instinct  for  life 
that  is  quite  remarkable.  There's  Lady  Mariamne, 
who  has  society  at  her  feet,  and  the  old  lord  is  a  most 
remarkable  old  gentleman.  Your  daughter,  Mrs.  Deu- 
nistouu,  is  a  very  fortunate  young  lady.  She  has  my 
best  congratulations,  I  am  sure." 

"  Sharp,"  said  Mr.  Lynch  from  the  background, 
"  you  had  better  be  thinking  of  starting,  if  you  want  to 
catch  that  train." 

"  I'll  see  if  the  pony  is  there,"  said  John. 

Mr.  Sharp  put  down  his  teacup  with  precipitation. 
"  Is  it  as  late  as  that  ?  "  he  cried. 

"It  is  the  last  train,"  said    Mrs.  Deunistoun,  with 


62  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

great  satisfaction.  "  And  I  am  afraid,  if  you  missed  it, 
as  the  house  is  full,  there  would  be  nothing  but  a  bed 
at  the  public-house  to  offer — 

"Oh,  not  another  word,"  the  lawyer  said:  and  fortu- 
nately he  never  knew  how  near  that  rising  young  man 
at  the  bar,  John  Tatham,  who  had  every  object  in  con- 
ciliating a  solicitor,  was  to  a  charge  of  manslaughter,  if 
killing  an  attorney  can  thus  be  called.  But  the  feelings 
of  the  party  were  expressed  only  in  actions  of  the  great- 
est kindness.  They  helped  him  on  with  his  coat,  and 
covered  him  with  rugs  as  he  got  in,  shivering,  to  the 
little  pony  carriage.  It  was  a  beautiful  night,  but  the 
wind  is  always  a  thing  to  be  considered  on  Windyhill. 

"Well,  that's  a  good  thing  over,"  said  Mr.  Lynch, 
going  to  the  fire  as  he  came  in  from  the  night  air  at 
the  door  and  rubbing  his  hands. 

"  It  would  have  been  a  relief  to  one's  feeling  to  have 
kicked  that  fellow  all  the  way  down  and  up  the  other 
side  of  the  combe,  and  kept  him  warm,"  said  John, 
with  a  laugh  of  wrath. 

"  It  is  a  pity  a  man  should  have  so  little  taste,"  said 
Mrs.  Deunistoun. 

Elinor  still  stood  where  she  had  been  standing,  with 
every  feeling  in  her  breast  in  commotion.  She  had  not 
taken  any  part  in  the  insidious  kindnesses  of  speeding 
the  parting  guest ;  and  now  she  remembered  that  he 
was  her  Phil's  representative  :  whatever  she  might  her- 
self think  of  the  man,  how  could  she  join  in  abuse  of 
one  who  represented  Phil  ? 

"He  is  no  worse,  I  suppose,  than  others,"  she  said. 
"He  was  hound  to  stand  up  for  those  in  whose  interest 
he  was.  Mr.  Lynch  would  have  made  himself  quite  as 
disagreeable  for  me." 

"  Not  I,"  said  the  old  gentleman  ;  "  for  what  is  the 
good  of  standing  up  for  you  ?  You  would  throw  me 
over  on  the  first  opportunity.  You  have  taken  all  the 
force  out  of  my  sword-arm,  1113'  dear,  as  it  is.  How 
can  I  make  myself  disagreeable  for  those  who  won't 
stand  up  for  themselves  ?  I  suppose  you  must  have  it 
your  own  way." 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  63 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  will  be  the  best,"  said  Mrs.  Den- 
nistouti,  in  subdued  tones. 

"It  would  come  to  about  the  same  thing,  however 
you  settled  it,"  said  John. 

Elinor  looked  from  one  to  another  with  eyes  that  be- 
gan to  glow.  "You  are  a  cheerful  company,"  she 
said.  "You  speak  as  if  you  were  arranging  my  funeral. 
On  the  whole  I  think  I  like  Mr.  Sharp  best ;  for  if  he 
was  contemptuous  of  me  and  my  little  bit  of  money,  he 
was  at  all  events  cheerful  about  the  future,  and  that  is 
always  something  ;  whereas  you  all " 

There  was  a  little  pause,  no  one  responding.  There 
was  no  pleasant  jest,  no  bright  augury  for  Elinor.  The 
girl's  heart  rose  against  this  gloom  that  surrounded 
her.  <;  I  think,"  she  said,  with  an  angry  laugh,  "  that 
I  had  better  run  after  Mr.  Sharp  and  bring  him  back, 
for  he  had  at  least  a  little  sympathy  with  me  !  " 

"Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,"  said  Mr.  Lynch,  "for 
if  we  think  you  are  throwing  yourself  away,  Elinor,  so 
does  he  on  his  side.  He  thinks  the  Honourable  Mr. 
Compton  is  going  dreadfully  cheap  for  five  thousand 
pounds." 

"  Elinor  need  not  take  any  of  us  au  pied  de  la  lettre 
— of  course  we  are  all  firm  for  our  own  side,"  said 
John. 

Elinor  turned  her  head  from  one  to  another,  growing 
pale  and  red  by  turns.  There  was  a  certain  surprise 
in  her  look,  as  she  found  herself  thus  at  bay.  The  tri- 
umph of  having  got  the  better  of  their  opposition  was 
lost  in  the  sense  of  isolation  with  which  the  gii'l,  so 
long  the  first  object  of  everybody  about  her,  felt  herself 
thus  placed  alone.  And  the  tears  were  very  ready  to 
start,  but  were  kept  back  by  jealous  pride  which  rose 
to  her  help.  Well !  if  they  put  her  outside  the  circle 
she  would  remain  so  ;  if  they  talked  to  her  as  one  no 
longer  of  them,  but  belonging  to  another  life,  so  be  it ! 
Elinor  determined  that  she  would  make  no  further  ap- 
peal. She  would  not  even  show  how  much  it  hurt  her. 
After  that  pale  look  round  upon  them  all,  she  went  into 
the  corner  of  the  room  where  the  piano  stood,  and 


64  THE  MAURI  A<>E   01''   K/JXOR. 


where  there  was  little  light.  She  was  too  proud  ' 
out  of  the  room,  lest  they  should  think  she  was  going 
to  cry.  She  \veut  with  a  sudden,  quick  movement  to 
the  piano  instead,  where  perhaps  she  might  cry  too, 
but  where  nobody  should  see.  Poor  Elinor  !  they  had 
made  her  feel  alone  by  their  words,  and  she  made  her- 
self more  alone  by  this  little  instinctive  withdrawal. 
She  began  to  play  softly  one  thing  after  another.  She 
was  not  a  great  performer.  Her  little  "tunes"  were 
of  the  simplest  —  no  better  indeed  than  tunes,  things 
that  every  musician  despises  :  they  made  a  little  atmos- 
phere round  her,  a  voluntary  hermitage  which  separated 
her  as  if  she  had  been  a  hundred  miles  away. 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  stayed  for  the  marriage," 
Mrs.  Denuistoun  said. 

"My  dear  lady,  it  would  spoil  my  holiday  —  the 
middle  of  September.  You'll  have  nobody  except,  of 
course,  the  people  you  have  always.  To  tell  the  truth/' 
John  added.  "I  don't  care  tuppence  for  my  holiday. 
I'd  have  come  —  like  a  shot  :  but  I  don't  think  I  could 
stand  it.  She  has  always  been  such  a  pet  of  mine.  I 
don't  think  I  could  bear  it,  to  tell  the  truth." 

"I  shall  have  to  bear  it,  though  she  is  more  than  a 
pet  of  mine,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun. 

"I  know,  I  know!  the  relatives  cannot  be  let  off  — 
especially  the  mother,  who  must  put  up  with  every- 
thing. I  trust,"  said  Mr.  Lynch,  with  a  sigh,  "  that  it 
may  all  turn  out  a  great  deal  better  than  we  hope. 
Where  are  they  going  after  the  marriage  ?  " 

"  Some  one  has  lent  them  a  place  —  a  very  pretty 
place  —  on  the  Thames,  where  they  can  have  boating 
and  all  that  —  Lord  Sudbury,  I  think.  And  later  they 
are  going  on  a  round  of  visits,  to  his  father,  Lord  St. 
Serf,  and  to  Lady  Mariamne,  and  to  his  aunt,  who  is 
Countess  of  —  something  or  other."  Mrs.  Deunistoun's 
voice  was  not  untouched  by  a  certain  vague  pleasure 
in  these  fine  names. 

"Ah,"  said  the  old  lawyer,  nodding  his  head  at  each, 
"  all  among  the'  aristocracy  ,  I  see.  "Well,  my  dear  lady, 
I  hope  you  will  be  able  to  find  some  satisfaction  in 


THE  MARKIAHK   <Jl''   ELINOR.  66 

that ;  it   is   better   than   to   fall    among — nobodies   at 
least." 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  with  a  sigh. 

They  were  speaking  low,  and  fondly  hoped  that  they 
were  not  heard  ;  but  Elinor's  ears  and  every  faculty 
were  quickened  and  almost  every  word  reached  her. 
But  she  was  too  proud  to  take  any  notice.  And  per- 
haps these  dreary  anticipations,  on  the  whole,  did  her 
good,  for  her  heart  rose  against  them,  and  any  little 
possible  doubts  in  her  own  mind  were  put  to  sudden 
flight  by  the  opposition  and  determination  which 
flooded  her  heart.  This  made  her  playing  a  little  more 
unsteady  than  usual,  and  she  broke  down  several  times 
in  the  middle  of  a  "tune;"  but  nobody  remarked 
this:  they  were  all  fully  occupied  with  their  own 
thoughts. 

All,  at  least,  except  John,  who  wandered  uneasily 
about  the  room,  now  studying  the  names  of  the  books 
on  the  bookshelves — which  he  knew  by  heart,  now  pull- 
ing the  curtain  aside  to  .look  out  at  the  moonlight,  now 
pulling  at  the  fronds  of  the  great  maidenhair  in  his  dis- 
traction till  the  table  round  was  scattered  with  little 
broken  leaves.  He  wanted  to  keep  out  of  that  atmos- 
phere of  emotion  which  surrounded  Elinor  at  the 
piano.  But  it  attracted  him,  all  the  same,  as  the  light 
attracts  a  moth.  To  get  away  from  that,  to  make  the 
severance  which  so  soon  must  be  a  perfect  severance, 
was  the  only  true  policy  he  knew  ;  for  what  was  he  to 
her,  and  what  could  she  be  to  him  ?  He  had  already 
said  everything  which  a  man  in  his  position  ought  to 
say.  He  took  out  a  book  at  last,  and  sat  down  dog- 
gedly by  the  table  to  read,  thus  making  another  circle 
of  atmosphere,  so  to  speak,  another  globe  of  isolated 
being  in  the  little  room,  while  the  two  elder  people 
talked  low  in  the  centre,  conventionally  inaudible  to 
the  girl  who  was  playing  and  the  young  man  who  was 
reading.  But  John  might  as  well  have  tried  to  solve 
some  tremendous  problem  as  to  read  that  book.  He 
too  heard  every  word  the  elders  were  saying.  He  heard 
them  with  his  own  ears,  and  also  he  heard  them 
o 


66  THE  MARRIAUE  OF  ELINOR. 

through  the  ears  of  Elinor,  gauging  the  effect  which 
every  word  would  have  upon  her.  At  last  he  could 
bear  it  no  longer.  He  was  driven  to  her  side  to  bear  a 
part  of  her  burden,  even  to  prevent  her  from  hearing, 
which  would  be  something.  He  resisted  the  impulse  to 
throw  down  his  book,  and  only  placed  it  very  quietly 
on  the  table,  and  even  in  a  deliberate  way,  that  there 
might  be  no  appearance  of  feeling  about  him — and 
made  his  way  by  degrees,  pausing  now  and  then  to 
look  at  a  picture,  though  lie  knew  them  all  by  heart 
Thus  he  arrived  at  last  at  the  piano,  in  what  he  flut- 
tered himself  was  an  accidental  way. 

"  Elinor,  the  stars  are  so  bright  over  the  combe,  do 
come  out.  It  is  not  often  they  are  so  clear." 

"  No,"  she  said,  more  with  the  movement  of  her  lips 
than  with  any  sound. 

"  Why  not  ?  You  can't  want  to  play  those  old 
pieces  just  at  this  moment.  You  will  have  plenty  of  time 
to  play  them  to-morrow." 

She  said  "  No  "  again,  with  a  little  impatient  move- 
ment of  her  hands  on  the  keys  and  a  look  towards  the 
others. 

"  You  are  listening  to  what  they  are  saying  ?  Why 
should  you?  They  don't  want  you  to  hear.  Come 
along,  Elinor.  It's  far  better  for  you  not  to  listen  to 
what  is  not  intended " 

"  Oh,  go  away,  John." 

"  I  must  say  no  in  my  turn.  Leave  the  tunes  till  to- 
morrow, and  come  out  with  me." 

"  I  thought,"  she  said,  roused  a  little,  "  that  you 
were  fond  of  music,  John." 

This  brought  John  up  suddenly  in  an  unexpected 
way.  "  Oh,  as  for  that," — he  said,  in  a  dubious  tone. 
Poor  Elinor's  tunes  were  not  music  in  his  sense,  as  she 
very  well  knew. 

She  laughed  in  a  forlorn  way.  "  I  know  what  you 
mean  ;  but  this  is  quite  good  enough  for  what  I  shall 
want.  I  am  going  down,  you  know,  to  a  different  level 
altogether.  Oh,  you  can  hear  for  yourself  what  mamma 
and  Mr.  Lynch  are  saying." 


THE   MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR.  67 

"  Going  up  you  mean,  Elinor.  I  thought  them  both 
very  complaisant  over  all  those  titles." 

"Ah,"  she  said,  "they  say  that  mocking.  They 
think  I  am  going  down  ;  so  do  you,  too,  to  the  laud  of 
mere  fast  people,  people  with  no  sense.  Well ;  there  is 
nothing  but  the  trial  will  teach  any  of  us.  We  shall 
see." 

"It  is  rather  a  dreadful  risk  to  run,  if  it's  only  a 
trial,  Elinor." 

"  A  trial — for  you,  not  for  me — lam  not  the  one  that 
thinks  so,  except  so  far  as  the  tunes  are  concerned," 
she  said  with  a  laugh.  "I  confess  so  far  as  that  Lady 
M.iriamne  is  fond  of  a  comic  song.  I  don't  think  she 
goes  any  further.  I  shall  be  good  enough  for  them  in 
the  way  of  music." 

"I  should  be  content  never  to  hear  another  note  of 
music  all  my  life,  Elinor,  if " 

';  Ah,  there  you  begin  again.  Not  you,  John,  not 
you  !  I  can't  bear  any  more.  Neither  stars,  nor  walks, 
nor  listening  ;  no  more  !  This  rather,"  and  she 
brought  down  her  hands  with  a  great  crash  upon  the 
piano,  making  every  one  start.  Then  Elinor  rose,  hav- 
ing produced  her  effect.  "  I  think  it  must  be  time  to  go 
to  bed,  mamma.  John  is  talking  of  the  stars,  which 
means  that  he  wants  his  cigar,  and  Mr.  Lynch  must 
want  just  to  look  at  the  tray  in  the  dining-room.  And 
you  are  tired  by  all  this  fuss,  all  this  unnatural  fuss 

about  me,  that  am  not  worth Come,  mother,  to 

bed." 


CHAPTER  VH. 

THE  days  in  the  cottage  were  full  of  ezcitement  and 
of  occupation  during  the  blazing  August  weather,  not 
so  much  indeed  as  is  common  in  many  houses  in  which 
the  expectant  bridegroom  is  always  coming  and  going  ; 
though  perhaps  the  place  of  that  exhilarating  commo- 
tion was  more  or  less  filled  by  the  ever-present  diver- 


68  THE  XARXtlAGU  OF  tiLINOK. 

sity  of  opinion,  the  excitement  of  a  subdued  but  never- 
ended  conflict  in  which  one  was  always  on  the  defens- 
ive, and  the  other  covertly  or  openly  attacking,  or  at 
least  believed  to  be  so  doing,  the  distant  and  unseen 
object  to  which  all  their  thoughts  turned.  Mrs.  Den- 
nistoun,  indeed,  was  not  always  aggressive,  her  opposi- 
tion was  but  in  fits  and  starts.  Often  her  feelings  of  pain 
and  alarm  were  quiescent  in  that  unfeigned  and  salu- 
tary interest  in  clothes  and  necessities  of  preparation 
which  is  almost  always  a  resource  to  a  woman's  mind. 
It  is  wrong  to  undervalue  this  possibility  which  com- 
pensates a  woman  in  a  small  degree  for  some  of  her 
special  troubles.  When  the  mother's  heart  was  very 
heavy,  it  was  often  diverted  a  little  by  the  discussion  of 
a  dinner  dress,  or  made  to  forget  itself  for  the  moment 
in  a  question  about  the  cut  of  a  sleeve,  or  which  would 
be  most  becoming  to  Elinor  of  two  colours  for  a  ball 
gown.  But  though  Mrs.  Dennistoun  forgot  often, 
Elinor  never  forgot.  The  dresses  and  "  things  "  gener- 
ally occupied  her  a  great  deal,  but  not  in  the  form  of 
the  anodyne  which  they  supplied  to  her  mother.  Her 
mind  was  always  on  the  alert,  looking  out  for  those  fry- 
ing arrows  of  warfare  which  your  true  fighter  lets  fly  in 
the  most  innocent  conversation  at  the  most  unexpected 
moments.  Elinor  thus  flung  her  shield  in  her  mother's 
face  a  hundred  times  when  that  poor  lady  was  thinking 
no  evil,  when  she  was  altogether  occupied  by  the  ques- 
tion of  frills  and  laces,  or  whether  tucks  or  flounces 
were  best,  and  she  was  startled  many  times  by  that  un- 
necessary rattle  of  Elinor's  arms.  "I  was  not  thinking 
of  Mr.  Compton,"  she  would  sometimes  be  driven  to 
say  ;  "  he  was  not  in  my  head  at  all.  I  was  thinking  of 
nothing  more  important  than  that  walking  dress,  and 
what  you  had  best  wear  in  the  afternoon  when  you  are 
on  those  grand  visits." 

There  was  one  thing  which  occasioned  a  little  discus- 
sion between  them,  and  that  was  the  necessary  civility 
of  asking  the  neighbours  to  inspect  these  "  tilings  "  when 
they  were  finally  ready.  It  was  only  the  argument,  that 
these  neighbours  would  be  Mrs.  Denmstoun's  sole  re- 


THE  jri7,'/?.U /-'A'   OF   ELINOR. 

source  when  she  was  left  alone  that  made  Elinor  assent 
at  last.  Perhaps,  however,  as  she  walked  quickly  along 
towards  the  moorland  Rectory,  a  certain  satisfaction  in 
showing  them  how  little  their  hints  had  been  taken, 
mingled  with  the  reluctance  to  admit  those  people  who 
had  breathed  a  doubt  upon  the  sacred  name  of  Phil,  to 
such  a  sign  of  intimacy. 

"I  have  been  watching  you  along  the  side  of  the 
combe,  and  wondering  if  it  was  you  such  a  threatening 
day,"  said  Alice  Hudson,  coming  to  the  door  to  meet 
her.  How  nice  of  you  to  come,  Elinor,  when  you  must 
be  so  busy,  and  you  have  not  been  here  since — I  don't 
know  how  long  ago  !  " 

"No,  I  have  not  been  here,"  said  Elinor  with  a  grav- 
ity worthy  the  bride  of  a  maligned  man.  "  But  the 
time  is  so  near  when  I  shall  not  be  able  to  come  at  all 
that  I  thought  it  was  best.  Mamma  wishes  you  to 
come  over  to-morrow,  if  you  will,  to  see  nay  things." 

"  Oh  ! "  the  three  ladies  said  together  ;  and  Mrs. 
Hudson  came  forward  and  gave  Elinor  a  kiss.  •'  My 
dear,"  she  said,  "I  take  it  very  kind  you  coming  your- 
self to  ask  us.  Many  would  not  have  done  it  after  what 

we  felt  it  our  duty But  you  always  had  a  beautiful 

spirit,  Elinor,  bearing  no  malice,  and  I  hope  with  all 
my  heart  that  it  will  have  its  reward." 

"  Well,  mother,"  said  Alice,  ';I  don't  see  how  Elinor 
could  do  anything  less,  seeing  we  have  been  such 
friends  all  our  lives  as  girls,  she  and  I,  and  I  am  sure  I 
have  always  been  ready  to  give  her  patterns,  or  to  show 
her  how  a  thing  was  done.  I  should  have  been  very 
much  disappointed  if  she  had  not  asked  me  to  see  her 
things." 

Mary  Dale,  who  was  Mrs.  Hudson's  sister,  said  noth- 
ing at  all,  but  accepted  the  visit  as  in  the  course  of 
nature.  Mary  was  the  one  who  really  knew  something 
about  Phil  Gompton  :  but  she  had  been  against  the  re- 
monstrance which  Mrs.  Hudson  thought  it  her  duty  to 
make..  What  was  the  good  ?  Miss  Dale  had  said  ;  and 
sue  had  refrained  from  telling  two  or  titree  stories 
about  the  Comptons  which  would  have  made  the  hair 


70  THE  MARRIAGE   OF   ELIXOR. 

stand  upright  on  the  heads  of  the  Rector  and  the  Rector- 
ess.  She  did  not  even  now  say  that  it  -was  kind,  but 
met  Elinor  in  silence,  as,  in  her  position  as  the  not  im- 
portant member  of  the  family,  it  was  quite  becoming 
for  her  to  do. 

Then  the  Rector  came  in  and  took  her  by  both  hands, 
and  gave  her  the  most  friendly  greeting.  "  I  heard 
Elinor's  voice,  and  I  stopped  in  the  middle  of  my 
sermon,"  he  said.  "  You  will  remark  in  church  on 
Sunday  a  jerky  piece,  which  shows  how  I  stopped  to 
reflect  whether  it  could  be  you — and  then  went  on  for 
another  sentence,  and  then  decided  that  it  must  be 
you.  There  is  a  big  Elinor  written  across  my  sermon 
paper."  He  laughed,  but  he  was  a  little  moved,  to  see, 
after  the  "coolness,"  the  little  girl  whom  he  had 
christened  come  back  to  her  old  friends  again. 

"She  has  come  to  ask  us  to  go  and  see  her  things, 
papa,"  said  Mrs.  Hudson,  twinkling  an  eye  to  get  rid 
of  a  suspicion  of  a  tear. 

"Am  I  to  come,  too?"  said  the  Rector  ;  and  thus 
the  little  incident  of  the  reconciliation  was  got  over,  to 
the  great  content  of  all. 

Elinor  reflected  to  herself  that  they  were  really  kind 
people,  as  she  went  out  again  into  the  grey  afternoon 
where  evei'ything  was  getting  up  for  rain.  She  made 
up  her  mind  she  would  just  have  time  to  run  into  the 
Hills',  at  the  Hurst,  and  leave  her  message,  and  so  get 
home  before  the  storm  began.  The  clouds  lay  low 
like  a  dark  grey  hood  over  the  fir-trees  and  moorland 
shaggy  tops  of  the  downs  all  round.  There  was  not  a 
break  anywhere  in  the  consistent  grey,  and  the  air, 
always  so  brisk,  had  fallen  still  with  that  ominous  lull 
that  comes  over  everything  before  a  convulsion  of 
nature.  Some  birds  were  still  hurrying  home  into  the 
depths  of  the  copses  with  a  frightened  straightuess  of 
flight,  as  if  they  were  afraid  they  would  not  get  back  in 
time,  and  all  the  insects  that  are  so  gay  with  theiv  hum- 
ming and  booming  had  disappeared  under  leaves  and 
stones  and  grasses.  Elinor  saw  a  bee  burrowing  deep 
in  the  waxen  trumpet  of  a  foxglove,  as  if  taking  shelter, 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  71 

as  she  walked  quickly  past.  The  Hills — thei'e  were 
two  middle-aged  sisters  of  them,  with  an  old  mother, 
too  old  for  such  diversion  as  the  inspection  of  wedding- 
clothes,  in  the  background — would  scarcely  let  Elinor 
go  out  again  after  they  had  accepted  her  invitation  with 
rapture.  "I  was  just  wondering  where  I  should  see  the 
new  fashions,"  said  Miss  Hill,  "  for  though  we  are  not 
going  to  be  married  we  must  begin  to  think  about  our 
winter  things "  "  And  this  will  be  such  an  oppor- 
tunity," said  Miss  Susan,  "  and  so  good  of  you  to  come 
yourself  to  ask  us." 

"  What  has  she  come  to  ask  you  to,"  said  old  Mrs. 
Hill ;  "  the  wedding?  I  told  you  girls,  I  was  sure  you 
would  not  be  left  out.  Why,  I  knew  her  mother  be- 
fore she  was  married.  I  have  known  them  all,  man 
and  boy,  for  nearer  sixty  than  fifty  years  —  before  her 
mother  was  born  !  To  have  left  }rou  out  would  have 
been  ridiculous.  Yes,  yes,  Elinor,  my  dear  ;  tell  your 
mother  they  will  come  —  delighted  !  They  have  been 
thinking  for  the  last  fortnight  what  bonnets  they  would 
wear " 

"Oh,  mother!  "  and  "  Oh,  Elinor!  "  said  the  "girls," 
••  you  must  not  mind  what  mother  says.  WTe  know 
very  well  that  you  must  have  worlds  of  people  to  ask. 
Don't  think,  among  all  your  new  connections,  of  such 
little  country  mice  as  us.  We  shall  always  just  take 
the  same  interest  in  you,  dear  child,  whether  you  find 
you  can  ask  us  or  not." 

"But  of  course  you  are  asked,"  said  Elinor,  in  gaiftv 
de  costir,  not  reflecting  that  her  mother  had  begun  to 
be  in  despair  about  the  number  of  people  who  could  be 
entertained  in  the  cottage  dining-room,  "and  you  must 
not  talk  about  my  new  grand  connections,  for  nobody 
will  ever  be  like  my  old  friends." 

"  Deai'  child  ! "  they  said,  and  "  I  always  knew  that 
dear  Elinor's  heart  was  in  the  right  place."  But  it  was 
all  that  Elinor  could  do  to  get  free  of  their  eager  affec- 
tion and  alarm  lest  she  should  be  caught  in  the  rain. 
Both  of  the  ladies  produced  waterproofs,  and  one  a 
large  pair  of  goloshes  to  fortify  her,  when  it  was  found 


72  THE  MARRIAGE  Or   EIJNOR. 

that,  she  would  go  ;  and  they  stood  in  the  porch  watch- 
ing her  as  she  went  along  into  the  darkening  afternoon, 
without  any  of  their  covers  and  shelters.  The  Miss 
Hills  were  apt  to  cling  together,  after  the  manner  of 
those  pairs  of  sweet  sisters  in  the  "Books  of  Beauty  " 
which  had  been  the  delight  of  their  youth  ;  they  stood, 
with  arms  intertwined,  in  their  porch,  watching  Elinor 
as  she  hurried  home,  with  her  light  half-flying  step, 
like  the  belated  birds.  "Did  you  hear  what  she  said 
about  old  friends,  poor  little  thing?"  "I  wonder  if 
she  is  finding  out  already  that  her  new  grand  connec- 
tions are  but  vanity  !  "  they  said,  shaking  their  heads. 
The  middle-aged  sisters  looked  out  of  the  sheltered 
home,  which  perhaps  they  had  not  chosen  for  them- 
selves, with  a  sort  of  wistful  feeling,  half  pity,  perhaps 
half  envy,  upon  the  "poor  little  thing"  who  was  run- 
ning out  so  light-hearted  into  the  storm.  They  had 
long  ago  retired  into  waterproofs  and  goloshes,  and  had 
much  unwillingness  to  wet  their  feet — which  things  are 
a  parable.  They  went  back  and  closed  the  door,  only 
when  the  first  flash  of  lightning  dazzled  them,  and  they 
remembered  that  an  open  door  is  dangerous  during  a 
thunderstorm. 

Elinor  quickened  her  pace  as  the  storm  began  and 
got  home  breathless  with  running,  shaking 'off  the  first 
big  drops  of  thunder-rain  from  her  dress.  But  she  did 
not  think  of  any  danger,  and  sat  out  in  the  porch  watch- 
ing how  the  darkness  cainefdowu  on  the  combe;  how 
it  was  met  with  the  jagged  gleam  of  the  great  white 
flash,  and  how  the  thunderous  explosion  shook  the 
earth.  The  combe,  with  its  hill-tops  on  either  side,  be- 
came like  the  scene  of  a  battle,  great  armies,  invisible 
in  the  sharp  torrents  of  rain,  meeting  each  other  with 
a  fierce  shock  and  recoil,  with  now  and  then  a  trumpet- 
blast,  and  now  the  gleam  that  lit  up  tree  and  copse, 
and  anon  the  tremendous  artillery.  When  the  light- 
ning came  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  winding  line  of 
the  white  road  leading  away  out  of  all  this — leading 
into  the  world  where  she  was  going — and  for  a  mom' -nt 
escaped  by  it,  even  amid  the  roar  of  all  the  elements : 


THE  MARRIAGE  or   i: I. IX OR.  73 

then  came  back,  alighting  again  with  a  start  in  the  fa- 
miliar porch,  amid  all  the  surroundings  of  the  familiar 
life,  to  feel  her  mother's  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  and 
her  mother's  voice  saying,  "  Have  you  got  wet,  my  dar- 
ling ?  Did  you  get  much  of  it  ?  Come  in,  come  in 
from  the  storm  !  " 

"It  is  so  glorious,  mamma!"  Mrs.  Deunistoun 
stood  for  a  few  minutes  looking  at  it,  then,  with  a  shud- 
der, withdrew  into  the  drawing-room.  "I think  I  have 
seen  too  many  storms  to  like  it,"  she  said.  But  Elinor 
had  not  seen  too  many  storms.  She  sat  and  watched  it, 
now  rolling  away  towards  the  south,  and  bursting  again 
as  though  one  army  or  the  other  had  got  reinforce- 
ments ;  while  the  flash  of  the  explosions  and  the  roar 
of  the  guns,  and  the  white  blast  of  the  rain,  falling  like 
a  sheet  from  the  leaden  skies,  wrapped  everything  in 
mystery.  The  only  thing  that  was  to  be  identified  from 
time  to  time  was  that  bit  of  road  leading  out  of  it — 
leading  her  thoughts  away,  as  it  should  one  day  lead 
her  eager  feet,  from  all  the  storm  and  turmoil  out  into 
the  bright  and  shining  world.  Elinor  never  asked  her- 
self, as  she  sat  there,  a  spectator  of  this  great  conflict 
of  nature,  whether  that  one  human  thing,  by  which 
her  swift  thoughts  traversed  the  storm,  carried  any 
other  suggestion  as  of  coming  back. 

Perhaps  it  is  betraying  feminine  counsels  too  much 
to  the  modest  public  to  narrate  how  Elinor's  things 
were  all  laid  out  for  the  inspection  of  the  ladies  of  the 
parish,  the  dresses  in  one  room,  the  "under  things  "  in 
another,  and  in  the  dining-room  the  presents,  which 
everybody  was  doubly  curious  to  see,  to  compare  their 
own  offerings  with  those  of  other  people,  or  else  to 
note  with  anxious  eye  what  was  wanting,  in  order,  if 
their  present  had  not  yet  been  procured,  to  supply  the 
gap.  How  to  get  something  that  would  look  well 
among  the  others,  and  yet  not  be  too  expensive,  was 
a  problem  which  the  country  neighbours  had  much  and 
painfully  considered.  The  Hudsous  had  given  Elinor 
a  little  tea-kettle  upon  a  stand,  which  they  were  pain- 
fully conscious  was  only  plated,  and  sadly  afraid  would 


74  TI7E  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

not  look  well  among  all  the  gorgeous  articles  with  which 
no  doubt  her  grand  new  connections  had  loaded  her. 
The  Hector  came  himself,  with  his  ladies  to  see  how  the 
kettle  looked,  with  a  great  line  of  anxiety  between  his 
brows ;  but  when  they  saw  that  the  revolving  dishes 
beside  it,  which  were  the  gift  of  the  wealthy  Lady 
Mariainne,  were  plated  too,  and  not  nearly  such  a  pretty 
design,  their  hearts  went  up  in  instant  exhilaration,  fol- 
lowed a  moment  after  by  such  indignation  as  they  could 
scarcely  restrain.  "  That  rich  sister,  the  woman  who 
married  the  Jew  "  (which  was  their  very  natural  expla- 
nation of  the  lady's  nickname),  "  a  woman  who  is  rolling 
in  wealth,  and  who  actually  made  up  the  match  !  "  This 
was  crescendo,  a  height  of  scorn  impossible  to  describe 
upon  a  mere  printed  page.  "  One  would  have  thought 
she  would  have  given  a  diamond  necklace  or  something 
of  consequence,"  said  Mrs.  Hudson  in  her  husband's 
ear.  "Or,  at  least  silver,"  said  the  Rector.  "These 
fashionable  people,  though  they  give  themselves  every 
luxury,  have  sometimes  not  very  much  money  to  spend  ; 
but  silver,  at  least,  she  might  have  been  expected  to 
give  silver."  "It  is  simply  disgraceful,"  said  the 
Rector's  wife.  "  I  am  glad,  at  all  events,  my  dear," 
said  he,  "  that  our  little  thing  looks  just  as  well  as 
any."  "It  is  one  of  the  pretties*"  things  she  has  got," 
said  Mrs.  Hudson,  with  a  pro-id  heart.  Lord  St.  Serf 
sent  an  old-fashioned  little  ring  in  a  much  worn  velvet 
case,  and  the  elder  brother,  Lord  Lomond,  an  alburn 
for  photographs.  The  Rector's  wife  indicated  these 
gifts  to  her  husband  with  little  shrugs  of  her  shoulders. 
" If  that's  all  the  family  can  do !  "  she  said  :  "why  Alice's 
cushion,  which  was  worked  with  floss  silks  upon  satin, 
was  a  more  creditable  present  than  that."  The  Miss 
Hills,  who  as  yet  had  not  had  an  opportunity,  as  they 
said,  of  giving  their  present,  roamed  about,  curious,  in- 
specting everything.  "  What  is  the  child  to  do  with  a 
kettle,  a  thing  so  difficult  to  pack,  and  requiring  spirit 
for  the  lamp,  and  all  that — and  only  plated  !  "  the 
Hills  said  to  each  other.  "Now,  that  little  teapot  of 
ours,"  said  Jane  to  Susan,  "if  mother  would  only  con- 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  75 

sent  to  it,  is  no  use  to  us,  and  would  look  very  hand- 
some here."  "  Real  silver,  and  old  silver,  which  is  so 
much  the  rage,  arid  a  thing  she  could  use  eveiy  day 
when  she  has  her  visitors  for  afternoon  tea,"  said  Susan 
to  Jane.  "It  is  rather  small,"  said  Miss  Hill,  doubt- 
fully. "But  quite  enough  for  two  people,"  said  the 
other,  forgetting  that  she  had  just  declared  that  the 
teapot  would  be  serviceable  when  Elinor  had  visitors. 
But  that  was  a  small  matter.  Elinor,  however,  had 
other  things  better  than  these — a  necklace,  worth  half 
a  year's  income,  from  John  Tatham,  which  he  had 
pinched  himself  to  get  for  her  that  she  might  hold  up 
her  head  among  those  great  friends  ;  and  almost  all 
that  her  mother  possessed  in  the  way  of  jewellery, 
which  was  enough  to  make  a  show  among  these  simple 
people.  "  Her  own  family  at  least  have  done  Elinor 
justice,"  said  the  Rector,  going  again  to  have  a  look  at 
the  kettle,  which  was  the  chief  of  the  display  to  him. 
Thus  the  visitors  made  their  remarks.  The  Hills  did 
nothing  but  stand  apart  and  discuss  their  teapot  and 
the  means  by  which  "  mother  "  could  be  got  to  assent. 
The  Rector  took  his  cup  of  tea,  always  with  a  side 
glance  at  the  kettle,  and  cut  his  cake,  and  made  his 
gentle  jest.  "  If  Alick  and  I  come  over  in  the  night  and 
carry  them  all  off  you  must  not  be  surprised,"  he  said  ; 
"  such  valuable  things  as  these  in  a  little  poor  parish 
are  a  dreadful  temptation,  and  I  don't  suppose  you 
have  much  in  the  way  of  bolts  and  bars.  Alick  is  as 
nimble  as  a  cat,  he  can  get  in  at  any  crevice,  and  I'll 
bring  over  the  box  for  the  collections  to  carry  off  the 
little  things."  Tliis  harmless  wit  pleased  the  good 
clergyman  much,  and  he  repeated  it  to  all  the  ladies. 
"  I  am  coming  over  with  Alick  one  of  these  dark  nights 
to  make  a  sweep  of  everything,"  he  said.  Mr.  Hudson 
retired  in  the  gentle  laughter  that  followed  this,  feeling 
that  he  had  acquitted  himself  as  a  man  ought  who  is 
the  only  gentleman  present,  as  well  as  the  Rector  of  the 
parish.  "I  am  afraid  I  would  not  be  a  good  judge  of 
the  '  things,'  "  he  said,  "  and  for  anything  I  know  there 
may  be  mysteries  not  intended  for  men's  eyes.  I  like 


76  THE  MMUU.\<:K   OF   I'.UXOR. 

to  see  your  pretty  dresses  when  you  are  wearing  them, 
but  I  can't  judge  of  their  effect  in  the  gross."  He  was 
a  man  who  had  a  pleasant  wit.  The  ladies  all  agreed 
that  the  Rector  was  sure  to  make  you  Inugh  whatever 
was  the  occasion,  and  he  walked  home  very  briskly, 
pleased  with  the  effect  of  the  kettle,  and  saying  to  him- 
self that  from  the  moment  he  saw  it  in  Mappin's  window 
he  had  felt  sure  it  was  the  very  thing. 

The  other  ladies  were  sufficiently  impressed  with  the 
number  and  splendour  of  Elinor's  gowns.  Mrs.  Dennis- 
toun  explained,  with  a  humility  which  was  not,  I  fear, 
untinctured  by  pride,  that  both  number  and  variety 
were  rendered  necessary  by  the  fact  that  Elinor  was 
going  upon  a  series  of  visits  among  her  future  husband's 
great  relations,  and  would  have  to  be  much  in  society 
and  among  fine  people  who  dressed  very  much,  and 
would  expect  a  great  deal  from  a  bride.  "  Of  course,  in 
ordinary  circumstances  the  half  of  them  would  have  been 
enough  :  for  I  don't  approve  of  too  many  dresses." 

"  They  get  old-fashioned/'  said  Mrs.  Hudson,  gravely, 
"before  they  are  half  worn  out." 

"  And  to  do  them  up  again  is  quite  as  expensive  as 
getting  new  ones,  and  not  so  satisfactory,"  said  the  Miss 
Hills. 

The  proud  mother  allowed  both  of  these  drawbacks. 
"  But  what  could  I  do  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  cannot  have  my 
child  go  away  into  such  a  different  sphere  unprovided. 
It  is  a  sacrifice,  but  we  had  to  make  it,  I  wish,"  she 
said,  looking  round  to  see  that  Elinor  was  out  of  hear- 
ing, "  it  was  the  only  sacrifice  that  had  to  be  made." 

"Let  us  hope,"  said  the  Rector's  wife,  solemnly, 
"  that  it  will  all  turn  out  for  the  best." 

"  It  will  do  that  however  it  turns  out,"  said  Miss 
Dale,  who  was  even  more  serious  than  it  was  incumbent 
on  a  member  of  a  clerical  household  to  be,  "  for  we  all 
know  that  troubles  are  sent  for  our  advantage  as  well  as 
blessings,  and  poor  dear  Elinor  may  require  much  dis- 
cipline  " 

"  Oh,  goodness,  don't  talk  as  if  the  poor  child  was 
going  to  be  executed,"  said  Susan  Hill. 


THE  1IAR1UA'.:  X    01-'   ELlXOn. 

"  I  am  not  at  all  alarmed,"  said  Mrs.  Deunistoun.  It 
was  unwise  of  her  to  have  left  an  opening  for  any  such 
remark.  "  My  Elinor  has  always  been  surrounded  by 
love  wherever  she  has  been.  Her  future  husband's 
family  are  already  very  fond  of  her.  I  am  not  at  all 
alarmed  on  Elinor's  account." 

She  laid  the  covering  wrapper  over  the  dresses  with 
an  air  of  pride  and  confidence  which  was  remembered 
long  afterwards — as  the  pride  that  goeth  before  a  fall  by 
some,  but  by  others  with  more  sympathy,  who  guessed 
the  secret  workings  of  the  mother's  heart. 


CHAPTER  VHL 

TIME  went  on  quickly  enough  amid  all  these  prepara- 
tions and  the  little  attendant  excitements  of  letters, 
congratulations,  and  presents  which  came  in  on  every 
sHe.  Elinor  complained  mildly  of  the  fuss,  but  it  was 
a  new  and  far  from  unpleasant  experience.  She  liked 
to  have  the  packets  brought  in  by  the  post,  or  the 
bigger  boxes  that  arrived  from  the  station,  and  to  open 
them  and  produce  out  of  the  wadding  or  the  saw-dust 
one  pretty  thing  after  another.  At  first  it  was  alto- 
gether fresh  and  amusing,  this  new  kind  of  existence, 
though  after  a  while  she  grew  blasee,  as  may  be  sup- 
posed. Lady  Mariainne's  present  she  was  a  little 
ashamed  of  :  not  that  she  cared  much,  but  because  of 
the  look  on  her  mother's  face  when  those  inferior  arti- 
cles were  unpacked  ;  and  at  the  ring  which  old  Lord 
St.  Serf  sent  her  she  laughed  freely. 

"I  will  put  it  with  my  own  little  old  baby  rings  in 
this  little  silver  tray,  and  they  will  all  look  as  if  they 
were  antiques,  or  something  worth  looking  at."  said 
Elinor.  Happily  there  were  other  people  who  endowed 
her  more  richly  with  rings  fit  for  a  bride  to  wear.  The 
relations  at  a  distance  were  more  or  less  pleased  with 
Elinor's  prospects.  A  few,  indeed,  from  different  parts 


78  THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR. 

of  the  world  wrote  iu  the  vein  of  Elinor's  home-ad- 
visers, hoping  that  it  was  not  the  Mr.  Compton  who  was 
so  well  known  as  a  betting  man  whom  she  was  going 
to  marry  ;  but  the  fact  that  she  was  marrying  into  a  no- 
ble family,  and  would  henceforward  be  known  as  the 
Honourable  Mrs.  Comptou,  mollified  even  these  critics. 
Only  three  brothers — one  a  great  invalid,  and  two  sol- 
diers— between  him  and  the  title.  Elinor's  relations 
promptly  inaugurated  in  their  imaginations  a  great  war, 
in  which  two  noble  regiments  were  cut  to  pieces,  to  dis- 
pose of  the  two  Captains  Comptou  ;  and  as  for  the  in- 
valid, that  he  would  obligingly  die  off  was  a  contin- 
gency which  nobody  doubted — and  behold  Elinor 
Dennistoun  Lady  St.  Serf  !  This  greatly  calmed  criti- 
cism among  her  relations,  who  were  all  at  a  distance, 
and  whose  approval  or  disapproval  did  not  much  affect 
her  spirits  anyhow.  John  Tatham's  father,  Mrs.  Den- 
nistoun's  cousin,  was  of  more  consequence,  chiefly  as 
being  John's  father,  but  also  a  little  for  himself,  and  it 
was  remarked  that  he  said  not  a  word  against  the 
marriage,  but  sent  a  very  handsome  present,  and  many 
congratulations — chiefly  inspired  (but  this  Elinor  did 
not  divine)  by  an  unfeigned  satisfaction  that  it  was  not 
his  son  who  was  the  bridegroom.  Mr.  Tatham,  senr., 
did  not  approve  of  early  marriages  for  young  men  push- 
ing their  way  at  the  bar,  unless  the  bride  was,  so  to 
speak,  in  the  profession  and  could  be  of  use  to  her  hus- 
band. Even  iu  such  cases,  the  young  man  was  better 
off  without  a  wife,  he  was  of  opinion.  How  could  he 
get  up  his  cases  properly  if  he  had  to  drag  about  in 
society  at  the  tail  of  a  gay  young  woman  ?  Therefore 
he  sent  Elinor  a  very  nice  present  in  gratitude  to  her 
and  providence.  She  was  a  danger  removed  out  of  his 
boy's  way. 

All  this  kept  a  cheerful  little  commotion  about  the 
house,  and  often  kept  the  mother  and  daughter  from 
thinking  more  than  was  good  for  them.  These  extra- 
neous matters  did  not  indeed  preserve  Elinor  altogether 
from  the  consciousness  thut  her  fiance's  letters  were  very 
short  and  a  little  uncertain  in  their  arrival,  sometimes 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR,  T'» 

missing  several  days  together,  and  generally  written  in 
a  hurry  to  catch  the  post.  But  they  kept  Mrs.  Dennis- 
toun  from  remarking  that  fact,  as  otherwise  she  would 
have  been  sure  to  do.  If  any  chill  of  disappointment 
was  in  Elinor's  mind,  she  said  to  herself  that  men  were 
generally  bad  correspondents,  not  like  girls,  who  had 
nothing  else  to  do,  and  other  consolations  of  this  kind, 
which  to  begin  with  beg  the  question,  and  show  the 
beginning  of  that  disenchantment  which  ought  to  be  re- 
served at  least  for  a  later  period.  Elinor  had  already 
given  up  a  good  deal  of  her  own  ideal.  She  would  not, 
as  she  said,  put  herself  in  competition  with  the  grouse, 
she  would  not  give  him  the  choice  between  her  and  a 
cigar  ;  but  already  the  consciousness  that  he  preferred 
the  grouse,  and  even  a  cigar,  to  her  society,  had  come  an 
unwilling  intruder  into  Elinor's  mind.  She  would  not 
allow  to  herself  that  she  felt  it  in  either  case.  She  sai  1 
to  herself  that  she  was  proud  of  it,  that  it  showed  the 
freedom  and  strength  of  a  man,  and  that  love  was  only 
one  of  many  things  which  occupied  his  life.  She  re- 
belled against  the  other  deduction  that  "'tis  woman's 
sole  existence,"  protesting  loudly  (to  herself)  that  she 
too  had  a  hundred  things  to  do,  and  did  not  want  him 
always  at  her  apron-strings  like  a  tame  curate.  But  aa 
a  matter  of  fact,  no  doubt  the  girl  would  have  been 
flattered  and  happy  had  he  been  more  with  her.  The 
time  was  coming  very  quickly  in  which  they  should  be 
together  always,  even  when  there  was  grouse  in  hand, 
when  his  wife  would  be  invited  with  him,  and  all  things 
would  be  in  common  between  them  ;  so  what  did  it 
matter  for  a  few  days  ?  The  marriage  was  fixed  for 
the  16th  of  September,  and  that  great  date  was  now 
scarcely  a  fortnight  off.  The  excitement  quickened  n? 
everything  grew  towards  this  central  point,  Arrange 
ments  had  to  be  made  about  the  wedding  breakfast  and 
where  the  guests  were  to  be  placed.  The  Hudsons  had 
put  their  spare  rooms  at  the  disposition  of  the  Cottage, 
and  so  had  the  Hills.  The  bridegroom  was  to  stay  at 
the  Rectory.  Lady  Mariamne  must  of  course,  Mrs. 
Denui.stoun  felt,  be  put  up  at  the  Cottage,  where  the  two 


80  THE  MMililAKE   OF  ELINOR. 

rooms  on  the  ground  floor — what  were  called  the  gentle- 
men's rooms — had  to  be  prepared  to  receive  her.  It 
was  with  a  little  awe  indeed  that  the  ladies  of  the  Cot- 
tage endeavoured,  by  the  aid  of  Elinor's  recollections,  to 
come  to  ;iu  understanding  of  what  a  fine  lady  would  want 
even  for  a  single  night.  Mrs.  Dennistoun's  experiences 
were  all  old-fashioned,  and  of  a  period  when  even  great 
ladies  were  less  luxurious  than  now  ;  and  it  made  her  a 
little  angry  to  think  how  much  more  was  required  for 
her  daughter's  future  sister-in-law  than  had  been  nec- 
essary to  herself.  But  after  all,  what  had  herself  to  do 
with  it  ?  The  thing  was  to  do  Elinor  credit,  and  make 
the  future  sister-in-law  perceive  that  the  Cottage  was 
no  rustic  establishment,  but  one  in  which  it  was  known 
what  was  what,  and  all  the  requirements  of  the  most  re- 
fined life.  Elinor's  bridesmaid,  Mary  Tatham,  was  to 
have  the  spare  room  up-stairs,  and  some  other  cousins, 
who  were  what  Mrs.  Deunistoun  called  "quiet  people," 
were  to  receive  the  hospitalities  of  the  Hills,  whose 
house  was  roomy  and  old-fashioned.  Thus  the  arrange- 
ments of  the  crisis  were  more  or  less  settled  and  eveiy- 
thing  made  smooth. 

Elinor  and  her  mother  were  seated  together  in  the 
drawing-room  on  one  of  those  evenings  of  which  Mrs. 
Demiistoiin  desired  to  make  the  most,  as  they  would  be 
the  last,  but  which,  as  they  actually  passed,  were — if 
not  occupied  with  discussions  of  how  everything  was 
to  be  arranged,  which  they  went  over  again  and  again 
by  instinct  as  a  safe  subject — heavy,  almost  dull,  and 
dragged  sadly  over  the  poor  ladies  whose  hearts  were 
so  full,  but  to  whom  to  be  separated,  though  it  would 
be  bitter,  would  also  at  the  same  time  almost  be  a  re- 
lief. They  had  been  silent  for  some  time,  not  because 
they  had  not  plenty  to  say,  but  because  it  was  so  diffi- 
cult to  say  it  without  awaking  too  much  feeling.  How 
could  they  talk  of  the  future  in  which  one  of  them 
would  be  away  in  strange  places,  exposed  to  the  risks 
and  vicissitudes  of  a  new  life,  and  one  of  them  be  left 
alone  in  the  unbroken  silence,  sitting  over  the  lire. 
with  nothing  but  that  blaze  to  give  her  any  comfort  ? 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELIXUR.  *1 

It  was  too  much  to  think  of,  much  more  to  talk  about, 
though  it  need  not  be  said  that  it  was  in  the  minds  of 
both — with  a  difference,  for  Elinor's  imagination  was 
most  employed  upon  the  brilliant  canvas  where  she  her- 
self held  necessarily  the  first  place,  with  a  sketch  of  her 
mother's  lonely  life,  giving  her  heart  a  pang,  in  the  dis- 
tance ;  while  Mrs.  Dennistoun  could  not  help  but  see 
the  lonely  figure  in  her  own  foreground,  against  the 
brightness  of  all  the  entertainments  in  which  Elinor 
should  appear  as  a  queen.  They  were  sitting  thus,  the 
mother  employed  at  some  fine  needlework  for  the 
daughter,  the  daughter  doing  little,  as  is  usual  nowa- 
days. They  had  been  talking  over  Lady  Marianme  and 
her  requirements  again,  and  had  come  to  an  end  of  that 
subject.  What  a  pity  that  it  was  so  hard  to  open  the 
door  of  their  two  hearts,  which  were  so  close  together, 
so  that  each  might  see  all  the  tenderness  and  compunc- 
tion in  the  other  ;  the  shame  and  sorrow  of  the  mother 
to  grudge  her  child's  happiness,  the  remorse  and 
trouble  of  the  child  to  be  leaving  that  mother  out  in 
all  her  calculations  for  the  future  !  How  were  they  to 
do  it  on  either  side  ?  They  could  not  talk,  these  poor 
loving  women,  so  they  were  mostly  silent,  saying  a  word 
or  two  at  intervals  about  Mrs.  Denuistoun's  work  (which 
of  course,  was  for  Elinor),  or  of  Elinor's  village  class 
for  sewing,  which  was  to  be  transferred  to  her  mother, 
skirting  the  edges  of  the  great  separation  which  could 
neither  be  dismissed  nor  ignored. 

Suddenly  Elinor  looked  up,  holding  up  her  finger. 
"What  was  that?"  she  said.  "A  step  upon  the 
gravel ?  " 

"  Nonsense,  child.  If  we  were  to  listen  to  all  these 
noises  of  the  night  there  would  always  be  a  step 
upon Oh  !  I  think  I  did  hear  something." 

"It  is  someone  coming  to  the  door,"  said  Elinor, 
rising  up  with  that  sudden  prevision  of  trouble  which 
is  so  seldom  deceived. 

"  Don't  go,  Elinor  ;  don't  go.  It  might  be  a  tramp  ; 
wait  at  least  till  they  knock  at  the  door." 

"  I  don't   think    it   can   be   a   tramp,    mamma.      It 


82  THE  MARBI AGE  OF  ELINOR. 

may  be  a  telegram.  It  is  coming  straight  up  to  the 
door." 

"  It  will  be  the  parcel  porter  from  the  station.  He 
is  always  coming  and  going,  though  I  never  knew  him 
so  late.  Pearson  is  in  the  house,  you  know.  There  is 
not  any  cause  to  be  alarmed." 

"  Alarmed  !  "  said  Elinor,  with  a  laugh  of  excite- 
ment ;  "  but  I  put  more  confidence  in  myself  than  in 
Pearson,  whoever  it  may  be." 

She  stood  listening  with  a  face  full  of  expectation, 
and  Mrs.  Dennistoun  put  down  her  work  and  listened 
too.  The  step  advanced  lightly,  scattering  the  gravel, 
and  then  there  was  a  pause  as  if  the  stranger  had 
stopped  to  reconnoitre.  Then  came  a  knock  at  the 
window,  which  could  only  have  been  done  by  a  tall 
man,  and  the  hearts  of  the  ladies  jumped  up,  and  then 
seemed  to  stop  beating.  To  be  sure,  there  were  bolts 
and  bars,  but  Pearson  was  not  much  good,  and  the 
house  was  full  of  valuables  and  very  lonely.  Mrs.  Den- 
nistoun rose  up,  trembling  a  little,  and  went  forward 
to  the  window,  bidding  Elinor  go  back  and  keep  quite 
quiet.  But  here  they  were  interrupted  by  a  voice 
which  called  from  without,  with  another  knock  on  the 
window,  "  Nell !  Nell !  " 

"  It  is  Phil,"  said  Elinor,  flying  to  the  door. 

Mrs.  Dennistouu  sat  down  again  and  said  nothing. 
Her  heart  sank  in  her  breast.  She  did  not  know  what 
she  feared  ;  perhaps  that  he  had  come  to  break  off  the 
marriage,  perhaps  to  hurry  it  and  carry  her  child  away. 
There  Avas  a  pause  as  was  natural  at  the  door,  a  mur- 
mur of  voices,  a  fond  confusion  of  words,  which  made 
it,  clear  that  no  breach  was  likely,  and  presently  after 
that  interval,  Elinor  came  back  beaming,  leading  her 
lover.  "  Here  is  Phil,"  she  said,  in  such  liquid  tones 
of  happiness  as  filled  her  mother  with  mingled  pleas- 
ure, gratitude,  and  despite.  "He  has  found  he  had  a 
day  or  two  to  spare,  and  he  has  rushed  down  here,  fancy, 
with  an  apology  for  not  letting  us  know  !  " 

"  She  thinks  everyone  is  like  herself,  Mrs.  Denuis- 
touu,  but  I  am  aware  that  I  uui  not  such  a  popular  per- 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  S3 

sonage  as  she  thinks  me,  and  you  have  least  reason  of 
all  to  approve  of  the  man  who  is  coming  to  carry  her 
away." 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Compton,"  she  said, 
gravely,  giving  him  her  hand. 

The  Hon.  Philip  Compton  was  a  very  tall  man,  with 
very  black  hair.  He  had  fine  but  rather  hawk-like 
features,  a  large  nose,  a  complexion  too  white  to  be 
agreeable,  though  it  added  to  his  romantic  appearance. 
There  was  a  furtive  look  in  his  big  dark  eyes,  which 
had  a  way  of  surveying  the  country,  so  to  speak,  before 
making  a  reply  to  any  question,  like  a  man  whose  re- 
sponse depended  upon  what  he  saw.  He  surveyed  Mrs. 
.Dennistoun  in  this  way  while  she  spoke;  but  then  he 
took  her  hand,  stooped  his  head  over  it,  and  kissed  it, 
not  without  grace.  "  Thank  you  very  much  for  that," 
he  said,  as  if  there  had  been  some  doubt  on  his  mind 
about  his  reception.  "  I  was  glad  enough  to  get  the 
opportunity,  I  can  tell  you.  I've  brought  you  some 
birds,  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  and  I  hope  you'll  give  me  some 
supper,  for  I'm  as  hungry  as  a  hawk.  And  now,  Nell, 
let's  have  a  look  at  you,"  the  lover  said.  He  was 
troubled  by  no  false  modesty.  As  soon  as  he  had  paid 
the  required  toll  of  courtesy  to  the  mother,  who  natu- 
rally ought  to  have  at  once  proceeded  to  give  orders 
about  his  supper,  he  held  Elinor  at  arm's  length  before 
the  lamp,  then,  having  fully  inspected  her  appearance, 
and  expressed  by  a  "  Charming,  by  Jove  I  "  his  opinion 
of  it,  proceeded  to  demonstrations  which  the  presence 
of  the  mother  standing  by  did  not  moderate.  There 
are  few  mothers  to  whom  it  would  be  agreeable  to  see 
their  child  engulfed  in  the  arms  of  a  large  and  strong 
man,  and  covered  with  his  bold  kisses.  Mrs.  Dennis- 
toun was  more  fastidious  even  than  most  mothers,  and 
to  her  this  embrace  was  a  sort  of  profanation.  The 
Elinor  who  had  been  guarded  like  a  flower  from  every 
contact — to  see  her  gi'ipped  in  his  arms  by  this  stran- 
ger, made  her  mother  glow  with  an  indignation  which 
she  knew  was  out  of  the  question,  yet  felt  to  the  bottom 
of  her  soul.  Elinor  was  abashed  before  her  mother, 


84  THE  MAltlUAiJL   ()!•'  ELI50H. 

but  she  was  not  angry.  She  forced  herself  from  his 
embrace,  but  her  blushing  countenance  was  full  of  hap- 
piness. What  a  revolution  had  thus  taken  place  in  a 
few  minutes!  They  had  been  so  dull  sitting  there 
alone ;  alone,  though  each  with  the  other  who  had 
filled  her  life  for  more  than  twenty  years  ;  and  now  all 
was  lightened,  palpitating  with  life.  "  Be  good,  sir," 
said  Elinor,  pushing  him  into  a  chair  as  if  he  bad  been 
a  great  dog,  "  and  quiet  and  well-behaved  ;  and  then 
you  shall  have  some  supper.  But  tell  us  first  where 
you  have  come  from,  and  what  put  it  into  your  head  to 
come  here." 

"I  came  up  direct  from  ray  brother  Lomond's  shoot- 
ing-box. Reply  No.  1.  What  put  it  into  my  head  to 
come  ?  Love,  I  suppose,  and  the  bright  eyes  of  a  cer- 
tain little  witch  called  Nell.  I  ought  to  have  been  in 
Ireland  for  a  sort  of  a  farewell  visit  there  ;  but  when  I 
found  I  could  steal  two  days,  you  may  imagine  I  knew 
very  well  what  to  do  with  them.  Eh  ?  Oh,  it's  mamma 
that  frightens  you,  I  see." 

"  It  is  kind  of  you  to  give  Elinor  two  days  when  you 
have  so  many  other  engagements,"  said  Mrs.  Dennis- 
toun,  turning  away. 

But  he  was  not  in  the  least  abashed.  "  Yes,  isn't  it  V  " 
he  said  ;  "my  last  few  days  of  freedom.  I  consider  I 
deserve  the  prize  for  virtue — to  cut  short  my  very  last 
rampage  ;  and  she  will  not  as  much  as  give  me  a  kiss  ! 
I  think  she  is  ashamed  before  you,  Mrs.  Dennistoun." 

"  It  would  not  be  surprising  if  she  were,"  said  Mrs. 
Dennistoun,  gravely.  "  I  am  old-fashioned,  as  you  may 
perceive." 

"Oh,  you  don't  need  to  tell  me  that,"  said  he  ;  "one 
can  see  it  with  half  an  eye.  Come  here,  Nell,  you  little 
coquette  :  or  I  shall  tell  the  Jew  you  were  afraid  of 
mamma,  and  you  will  never  hear  an  end  of  it  as  long  as 
you  live." 

"  Elinor,  I  think  you  had  better  see,  perhaps,  what 
there  is  to  make  up  as  good  a  meal  as  possible  for  Mr. 
Compton,"  said  her  mother,  sitting  down  opposite  to 
the  stranger,  whose  long  limbs  were  stretched  over  half 


THE  llMU'JAGi:   <>!•'    //A/L 


the  floor,  with  the  intention  of  tripping  up  Elinor,  it 
seemed  ;  but  she  glided  past  him  and  went  on  her  way 
—  not  offended,  oh,  not  at  all  —  waving  her  hand  to  him 
as  she  avoided  the  very  choice  joke  of  his  stretched-out 
foot. 

"  Mr.  Compton,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  "  you  will  be 
Elinor's  husband  in  less  than  a  fortnight." 

"I  hope  so,"  he  said,  displaying  the  large  cavern  of  a 
yawn  under  his  black  moustache  as  he  looked  her  in  the 
face. 

"  And  after  that  I  will  have  no  right  to  interfere  ;  but, 
in  the  meantime,  this  is  my  house,  and  I  hope  you  will 
remember  that  these  ways  are  not  mine,  and  that  I  am 
too  old-fashioned  to  like  them.  I  prefer  a  little  more 
respect  to  your  betrothed." 

"Oh,  respect,"  he  said.  "I  have  never  found  that 
girls  like  too  much  respect.  But  as  you  please.  Well, 
look  here,  Nell,"  he  said,  catching  her  by  the  arm  as  she 
came  back  and  swinging  her  towards  him,  "your  mother 
thinks  I'm  too  rough  with  you,  my  little  dear." 

"  Do  you,  mamma  ?  "  said  Elinor,  faltering  a  little  ; 
but  she  had  the  sweetest  rose-flush  on  her  cheeks  and 
the  moisture  of  joy  in  her  eyes.  In  all  her  twenty-three 
years  she  had  never  looked  as  she  looked  now\  Her 
life  had  been  a  happy  one,  but  not  like  this.  She  had 
been  always  beloved,  and  never,  had  known  for  a  day 
what  it  was  to  be  neglected  ;  yet  love  had  never  appeared 
to  her  as  it  did  now,  so  sweet,  nor  life  so  beautiful. 
What  strange  delusion  !  what  a  wonderful  incomprehen- 
sible mistake  !  or  so  at  least  the  mother  thought,  looking 
at  her  beautiful  girl  with  a  pang  at  her  heart. 

"  It  is  only  his  bad  manners,"  said  Elinor,  in  a  voice 
which  sounded  like  a  caress.  "  He  knows  very  well 
how  to  behave.  He  can  be  as  nice  as  any  one,  and  as 
pretty  spoken,  and  careful  not  to  offend.  '  It  is  only  ar- 
riving so  suddenly,  and  not  being  expected  —  or  that  lie 
has  forgotten  his  nice  manners  to-night.  Phil,  do  you 
hear  what  I  say  ?  " 

Phil  made  himself  into  the  semblance  of  a  dog,  and 
sat  up  and  begged  for  pardon.  It  was  a  trick  which 


Sfi  THE  CARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

made  people  "  shriek  with  laughing  ;  "  but  Mrs.  Dennis- 
touu's  gravity  remained  unbroken.  Perhaps  her  ex- 
treme seriousness  had  something  in  it  that  was  rather 
ridiculous  too.  It  was  a  relief  when  he  went  off  to  his 
supper,  attended  by  Elinor,  and  Mrs.  Dennistouu  was 
left  alone  over  her  fire.  She  had  a  slight  sense  that  she 
had  been  absurd,  as  well  as  that  Philip  Compton  had 
lacked  breeding,  which  did  not  make  her  more  comfort- 
able. Was  it  possible  that  she  would  be  glad  when  it 
was  all  over,  and  her  child  gone — her  child  gone,  and 
with  that  man  !  Her  child,  her  little  delicately  bred, 
finely  nurtured  girl,  who  had  been  wrapped  in  all  the 
refinements  of  life  from  her  cradle,  and  had  never  heard 
a  rough  word,  never  been  allowed  to  know  anything  that 
would  disturb  her  virginal  calm  ! — yet  now  in  a  moment 
passed  away  beyond  her  mother  to  the  unceremonious 
wooer  who  had  no  reverence  for  her,  none  of  the  wor- 
ship her  mother  expected.  How  strange  it  was  !  Yet 
a  thing  that  happened  every  day.  Mrs.  Dennistoun  sat 
over  the  fire,  though  it  was  not  cold,  and  listened  to  the 
voices  and  laughter  in  the  next  room.  How  happy  they 
were  to  be  together  !  She  did  not,  however,  dwell  upcm 
the  fact  that  she  was  alone  and  deserted,  as  many  women 
would  have  clone.  She  knew  that  she  would  have  plenty 
of  time  to  dwell  on  this  in  the  lonely  days  to  come. 
What  occupied  her  was  the  want  of  more  than  manners, 
of  any  delicate  feeling  in  the  lover  who  had  seized  with 
rude  caresses  upon  Elinor  in  her  mother's  presence,  and 
the  fact  that  Elinor  did  not  object,  nor  dislike  that 
it  should  be  so.  That  she  should  feel  forlorn  was 
no  wonderful  thing ;  that  did  not  disturb  her  mind. 
It  was  the  other  matter  about  Elinor  that  pained 
and  horrified  her,  she  could  not  tell  why  ;  which,  per- 
haps, was  fantastic,  which,  indeed,  she  felt  sure  must 
be  so. 

They  were  so  long  in  the  dining-room,  where  Compton 
had  his  supper,  that  when  that  was  over  it  was  time  to 
go  to  bed.  Still  talking  and  laugHng  as  if  they  could 
never  exhaust  either  the  fountain  of  talk  or  the  mirth, 
which  was  probably  much  more  sheer  pleA<s«.ve  ''u  their 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  87 

meeting  than  genuine  laughter  produced  by  any  wit  or 
bon  mot,  they  came  out  into  the  passage,  and  stood  by 
Mrs.  Dennistoun  and  the  housemaid,  who  had  brought 
her  the  keys  and  was  now  fastening  the  hall  door.  A 
little  calendar  hung  on  the  wall  beneath  the  lamp,  and 
Phil  Compton  walked  up  to  it  and  with  a  laugh  read 
out  the  date.  "Sixth  September,"  he  said,  and  turned 
round  to  Elinor.  "Only  ten  days  more,  Nell."  The 
housemaid  stooping  down  over  the  bolt  blushed  and 
laughed  too  under  her  breath  in  sympathy  ;  but  Mrs. 
Dennistoun  turning  suddenly  round  caught  Compton'a 
eye.  Why  had  he  given  that  keen  glance  about  him  ? 
There  was  nothing  to  call  for  his  usual  survey  of  the 
company  in  that  sentiment.  He  might  have  known  well 
enough  what  were  the  feelings  he  was  likely  to  call  forth. 
A  keen  suspicion  shot  through  her  mind.  Suspicion  of 
what  ?  She  could  not  tell.  There  was  nothing  that  was 
not  most  natural  in  his  sudden  arrival,  the  delightful 
surprise  of  his  coining,  his  certainty  of  a  good  reception. 
The  wonder  was  that  he  had  come  so  little,  not  that  he 
should  come  now. 

The  next  morning  the  visitor  made  himself  very  agree- 
able :  his  raptures  were  a  little  calmed.  He  talked  over 
all  the  arrangements,  and  entered  into  everything  with 
the  interest  of  a  man  to  whom  that  great  day  approach- 
ing was  indeed  the  greatest  day  in  his  life.  And  it 
turned  out  that  he  had  something  to  tell  which  was  of 
ical  importance.  "I  may  relieve  your  mind  about 
Nell's  money,"  he  said,  "  for  I  believe  my  company  is 
going  to  be  wound  up.  We'll  look  out  for  another  in- 
vestment which  will  pay  as  well  and  be  less  risky.  It 
has  been  found  not  to  be  doing  quite  so  well  as  was 
thought,  so  we're  going  to  wind  up." 

"I  hope  you  have  not  lost  anything,"  said  Mrs.  Deu- 
nistoun. 

"Oh,  nothing  to  speak  of,"  he  said,  carelessly. 

"  I  am  not  fond  of  speculative  companies.  I  am  glad 
you  are  done  with  it,"  Mrs.  Deunistoun  said. 

>;And  I'm  glad  t'  )je  done  with  it.  1  snail  look 
out  for  something  permanent  and  decline  joint- stock 


THE  MARRTAGE   OF  ELINOR. 

companies.  I  thought  you  would  like  to  know.  But 
that  is  the  last  word  I  shall  say  about  business.  Come, 
Nell,  I  have  only  one  day ;  let's  spend  it  in  the 
woods." 

Elinor,  who  felt  that  the  day  in  the  woods  was  far 
more  important  than  any  business,  hurried  to  get  her 
hat  and  follow  him  to  the  door.  It  chanced  to  her  to 
glance  at  the  calendar  as  she  passed  hastily  out  to  where 
he  stood  awaiting  her  in  the  porch.  Why  that  should 
have  happened  to  anyone  in  the  Cottage  twice  in  the 
twenty-four  hours  is  a  coincidence  which  I  cannot  ex- 
plain, but  so  it  was.  Her  eye  caught  the  little  white 
plaque  in  passing,  and  perceived  \\  ith  surprise  that  it 
had  moved  up  two  numbers,  and  that  it  was  the  figure 
8  which  was  marked  upon  it  now. 

"We  cannot  have  slept  through  a  day  and  night,"  she 
said,  laughing  as  she  joined  him.  "  The  calendar  says 
the  eighth  September  now." 

"But  I  arrived  on  the  sixth,"  he  said.  "Mind  that, 
Nell,  whatever  happens.  You  saw  it  with  your  own 
eyes.  It  may  be  of  consequence  to  remember." 

"  Of  what  consequence  could  it  be  ? "  said  Elinor, 
wondering. 

"  One  can  never  tell.  The  only  thing  is  I  arrived  on 
the  sixth — that  you  know.  And,  Nell,  my  darling,  sup- 
posing any  fellow  should  inquire  too  closely  into  my 
movements,  you'll  back  me  up,  won't  you,  and  agree  in 
everything  I  say '?  "• 

"  Who  should  inquire  into  your  movements  ?  There 
is  no  one  here  who  would  be  so  impertinent,  Phil." 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  "  there  is  never  any  telling  how  im- 
pertinent people  may  be." 

"  And  what  is  there  in  your  movements  that  any  one 
dare  inquire  about  ?  I  hope  you  are  not  ashamed  of 
coming  to  see  me." 

"  That  is  just  what  is  the  saving  of  me,  Nell.  I  can't 
oxpl:iin  what  I  mean  now,  but  I  will  later  on.  Only 
mind  you  don't  contradict  me  if  we  should  meet  any  in- 
quisitive person.  I  arrived  on  the  sixth,  and  you'll  back 
me  like  my  true  love  in  everything  I  say." 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR.  89 

"As  far  as — as  I  know,  Phil." 

"Oh,  we  must  have  no  conditions.     You  must  stand 
by  me  in  everything  I  say." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THIS  day  in  the  copse  was  one  that  Elinor  never  for- 
got. At  the  moment  it  seemed  to  her  the  most  blissful 
period  of  all  her  life.  There  had  been  times  in  which 
she  had  longed  that  Phil  knew  more  and  cared  more 
for  the  objects  which  had  always  been  most  familiar, 
and  told  for  most  in  her  own  existence — although  it  is 
true  that  at  first  his  very  ignorance,  real  or  assumed, 
his  careless  way  of  treating  all  intellectual  subjects,  his 
indifference  to  books  and  pictures,  and  even  nature, 
had  amused  and  pleased  her,  giving  a  piquancy  to  the 
physical  strength  and  enjoying  manhood,  the  perpetual 
activity  and  state  of  doing  something  in  which  he  was. 
It  was  not  a  kind  of  life  which  she  had  ever  known  be- 
fore, and  it  dazzled  her  with  its  apparent  freedom  and  ful- 
ness, the  variety  in  it,  the  constant  movement,  the  crowd 
of  occupations  and  people.  To  her  who  had  been  used  to 
finding  a  great  deal  of  her  amusement  in  reading,  in 
sketching  (not  very  well),  in  playing  (tunes),  and  generally 
practising  with  very  moderate  success  arts  for  which  she 
had  no  individual  enthusiasm,  it  had  seemed  like  a  new 
life  to  be  plunged  into  the  society  of  horses  and  dogs, 
into  the  active  world  which  was  made  up  of  a  round  of 
amusements,  race  meetings,  days  on  the  river,  follies  of 
every  conceivable  kind,  exercise,  and  air,  and  movement. 
The  ignorance  of  all  these  people  dazzled  her  as  if  it  had 
been  a  new  science.  It  had  seemed  something  wonder- 
ful and  piquant  to  Elinor  to  find  people  who  knew  so 
much  of  subjects  she  had  never  heard  of,  and  nothing 
at  all  of  those  she. had  been  trained  to  know.  And  then 
there  had  come  a  moment  when  she  had  begun  to  sigh 
under  her  breath,  as  it  were,  and  wish  that  Phil  would 


00  TTTE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR. 

sometimes  open  a  book,  that  when  he  took  up  the 
newspaper  he  would  look  at  something  more  than  the 
sporting  news  and  the  bits  of  gossip,  that  he  would  talk 
now  and  then  of  something  different  from  the  racings 
and  the  startings,  and  the  odds,  and  the  scrapes  other 
men  got  into,  and  the  astonishing  "frocks"  of  the  Jew 
^ -those  things,  so  wonderful  at  first,  like  a  new  lan- 
guage, absurd,  yet  amusing,  came  to  be  a  little  tiresome, 
especially  when  scraps  of  them  made  up  the  bulk  of  the 
very  brief  letters  which  Phil  scribbled  to  his  betrothed. 
But  during  this  day,  after  his  unexpected  arrival,  the  joy 
of  seeing  him  suddenly,  the  pleasure  of  feeling  that  he 
had  broken  through  all  his  engagements  to  come  to  her, 
and  the  fervour  of  his  satisfaction  in  being  with  her  again 
i that  very  fervour  which  shocked  her  mother),  Elinor's 
first  glow  of  delight  in  her  love  came  fully  back.  And  as 
they  wandered  through  the  pleasant  paths  of  the  copse, 
his  very  talk  seemed  somehow  changed,  and  to  have 
gained  just  that  little  mingling  of  perception  of  her 
tastes  and  wishes  which  she  had  desired.  There  was  a 
little  autumnal  mist  about  the  softening  haze  which 
was  not  decay,  but  only  the  "  mellow  fruitfulness  "  of 
the  poet ;  and  the  day,  notwithstanding  this,  was  as 
warm  as  June,  the  sky  blue,  with  only  a  little  white 
puff  of  cloud  here  and  there.  Phil  paused  to  look  down 
the  combe,  with  all  the  folds  of  the  downs  that  wrappec? 
it  about,  going  off  in  blue  outlines  into  the  distance, 
and  said  it  was  "a  jolly  view  " — which  amused  Elinor 
more  than  if  he  had  used  the  finest  language,  and 
showed  that  he  was  beginning  (she  thought)  to  care  a 
lif tie  for  the  things  which  pleased  her.  "And  I  suppose 
you  could  see  a  man  coming  by  that  bit  of  road." 

"Yes,"  said  Elinor,  "you  could  see  a  man  coming — 
or  going  :  but,  unless  you  were  to  make  believe  very 
strong,  like  the  Marchioness,  you  could  not  make  out 
who  the  man  was." 

"What  Marchioness?"  said  Phil.  "I  didn't  know 
you  had  anybody  with  a  title  about  here.  I  say,  Noll, 
it's  a  very 'jolly  view,  but  hideously  dull  for  you,  niy 
pet,  to  have  lived  so  long  here." 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELTXOP.  01 

"I  never  found  it  in  the  least  dull/'  she  said. 

"  Why,  there  is  nothing  to  do  !  I  suppose  you  rea,7. 
books,  eh  ?  That's  what  you  call  amusing  yourself. 
You  ought  to  have  made  the  old  lady  take  you  about  a 
deal,  abroad,  and  all  over  the  place  :  but  I  expect  you 
have  never  stood  up  for  yourself  a  bit.  Nell." 

"  Dou't  call  mamma  the  old  lady,  Phil'  She  is  not 
old,  and  far  prettier  than  most  people  i  know." 

"  Well,  she  should  have  done  it  for  herself.  Might 
have  picked  up  a  good  match,  eh  ?  a  father-in-law  that 
would  have  left  }'ou  a  pot  of  money.  You  don't  mean 
to  say  you  wouldn't  have  liked  that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Phil,  Phil !     I  wish  you  could  understand." 

"  Well,  well,  I'll  let  the  old  girl  alone."  And  then 
came  the  point  at  which  Phil  improved  so  much.  "Tell 
me  what  you've  been  reading  last,"  he  said.  "I  should 
like  to  know  what  you  are  thinking  about,  even  if  I 
don't  understand  it  myself.  I  say,  Nell,  who  do  you 
think  that  can  be  dashing  so  fast  along  the  road  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  people  at  Reddown,"  she  said.  "  I  know 
their  white  horses.  They  always  dash  along  as  if  they 
were  in  the  greatest  hurry.  Do  you  really  want  to 
know  what  I  have  been  reading,  Phil  ?  though  it  is  very 
little,  I  fear,  because  of  the  dressmakers  and — all  the 
other  things." 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "when  you  have  lots  to  do  you 
can't  keep  up  with  your  books  :  which  is  the  reason 
why  I  never  pretend  to  read — I  have  no  time." 

"  You  might  find  a  little  time.  I  have  seen  you  look 
vcrv  much  bored,  and  complain  that  there  was  nothing 
to  do." 

'•Never  when  you  were  there,  Nell,  that  I'll  answer 
for — but  of  course  there  are  tmr:-«  when  a  fellow  isn't 
doing  anything  much.  What  would  you  have  me  read  ? 
There's  always  the  Sporting  and  Dramatic,  you  know, 
the  Pink  'un,  and  a  few  more." 

"Oh,  Phil!  you  don't  call  them  literature,  I  hope." 

' '  I  don't  know  much  about  what  you  call  literature. 
There's  Ruff,  and  Hoyle,  and — I  say,  Nell,  there's  a  dog- 
cart going  a  pace!  Who  can  that  be,  do  you  suppose?" 


09  THE.  MARRIAGE  Or  KLINOR. 

"  I  don't  know  all  the  dog-carts  about.  I  should 
think  it  was  some  one  coming  from  the  station." 

"Oh!  "  he  said,  and  made  a  long  pause.  "Driving 
like  that,  if  they  don't  break  their  necks,  they  should 
be  here  in  ten  minutes  or  so." 

"  Oh,  not  for  twice  that  time- — the  road  makes  such 
a  round — but  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  any 
dog-cart  from  the  station  should  be  coming  here." 

"  Well,  to  return  to  the  literature,  as  you  call  it.  I 
suppose  I  shall  have  to  get  a  lot  of  books  for  you  to 
keep  you  amused— eh,  Nell?  even  in  the  honeymoon." 

"  We  shall  not  have  time  to  read  very  much  if  we  are 
moving  about  all  the  time." 

"  Not  me,  but  you.  I  know  what  you'll  do.  You'll 
go  and  leave  me  planted,  and  run  up-stairs  to  read  your 
book.  I've  seen  the  Jew  do  it  with  some  of  her  con- 
founded novels  that  she's  always  wanting  to  turn  over 
to  rue." 

"But  there  are  souse  novels  that  you  would  like  to 
read,  Phil." 

"  Not  a  bit.  Why,  Nell,  I  know  far  better  stories  of 
fellows  in  our  own  set  than  any  novel  these  writing  men 
ever  can  put  on  paper  :  fellows,  and  women,  too — stories 
that  would  make  your  hair  stand  on  end,  and  that  would 
make  you  die  with  laughing.  You  can't  think  what  lots 
I  know.  That  cart  would  have  been  here  by  this  time 
if  it  had  been  coming  here,  eh  ?  " 

"Oh,  no,  not  yet — the  road  makes  such  a  long  round. 
Do  you  expect  any  one,  Phil  ?  " 

"  I  don't  quite  know  ;  there's  something  on  at  that 
confounded  office  of  ours  ;  everything,  you  know,  has 
gone  to  smash.  I  didn't  think  it  well  to  say  too  much 
to  the  old  lady  last  night.  There's  been  a  regular  row, 
and  the  manager's  absconded,  and  all  turns  on  whether 
they  can  find  some  books.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  one 
of  th,e  fellows  came  down  here,  if  they  find  out  where  I 
am.  I  say,  Nell,  mind  you  back  me  up  whatever  I  say." 

"But  I  can't  possibly  know  anything  about  it,"  said 
Elinor,  astonished. 

"Never  mind — about  dates  and  that — if  you  don't 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR.  93 

stand  by  me,  there  may  be  a  fuss,  and  the  wedding  de- 
layed. Remember  that,  my  pet,  the  wedding  delayed 
— that's  what  I  want  to  avoid.  Now,  come,  Nell,  let's 
have  another  go  about  the  books.  All  English,  mind 
you.  I  won't  buy  you  any  of  the  French  rot.  They're 
too  spicy  for  a  little  girl  like  you." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Phil.  I  hope  you 
don't  thinK  that  I  read  nothing  but  novels,"  Elinor 
said. 

"  Nothing  but  novels  !  Oh,  if  you  go  in  for  mathe- 
matics and  that  sort  of  thing,  Nell !  the  novels  are  too 
deep  for  me.  Don't  say  poetry,  if  you  love  me.  I  could 
stand  most  things  from  you,  Nell,  you  little  darling — 
but,  Nell,  if  you  come  spouting  verses  all  the  time — 

His  look  of  horror  made  Elinor  laugh.  "  You  need 
not  be  afraid.  I  never  spout  verses,"  she  said. 

"  Come  along  this  way  a  little,  where  we  can  see  the 
road.  All  women  seem  to  like  poetry. '  There's  a  few 
fellows  I  don't  mind  myself.  Ingoldsby,  now  that's 
something  fine.  We  had  him  at  school,  and  perhaps 
it  was  the  contrast  from  one's  lessons.  Do  you  know 
Ingoldsby,  Nell  ?  " 

"A — little — I  have  read  some " 

"  Ah,  you  like  the  sentimental  best.  There's  "NVhyte 
Melville,  then,  there's  always  something  melancholy 
about  him — '  When  the  old  horse  died,'  and  that  sort  of 
tiling — makes  you  cry,  don't  you  know.  You  all  like 
that.  Certainly,  if  that  dog-cart  had  been  coming  here 
it  must  have  come  by  this  time." 

"Yes,  it  must  have  come,"  Elinor  admitted,  with  a 
little  wonder  at  the  importance  which  he  gave  to  this 
possible  incident.  "  But  there  is  another  train  at  two 
if  you  are  very  anxious  to  see  this  man." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  anxious  to  see  him,"  said  Mr.  Compton, 
with  a  laugh,  "  but  probably  he  will  want  to  see  me. 
No.  Nell,  you  will  not  expect  me  to  read  poetry  to  you 
while  we're  away.  There's  quite  a  library  at  Lomond's 
place.  You  can  amuse  yourself  there  when  I'm  shoot- 
ing ;  not  that  I  shall  shoot  much,  or  anything  that  takes 
me  away  from  my  Nell.  But  you  must  come  out  with 


4  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

us.  There  is  no  such  fun  as  stumping  over  the  moors 
— the  Jew  has  got  all  the  turn-out  for  that  sort  of  thing 
— short  frocks  and  knickerbockers,  and  a  duck  of  a  little 
breech-loader.  She  thinks  she's  a  great  shot,  poor 
thing,  and  rnen  are  civil  and  let  her  imagine  that  she's 
knocked  over  a  pheasant  or  a  hare,  now  and  then.  As  for 
the  partridges,  she  lets  fly,  of  course,  but  to  say  she  hits 
anything " 

"  I  should  not  want  to  hit  anything,"  said  Elinor. 
"  Oh,  please  Phil !  I  will  try  anything  else  you  like, 
but  don't  make  me  shoot." 

"  You  little  humbug  !  See  what  you'll  say  when  you 
get  quite  clear  of  the  old  lady.  But  I  don't  want  you 
to  shoot,  Nell.  If  you  don't  get  tired  sitting  at  home, 
with  all  of  us  out  on  the  hill,  I  like  to  come  in  for  my 
part  and  find  a  little  duck  all  tidy,  not  blowzy  and 
blown  about  by  the  wind,  like  the  Jew  with  her  ridicu- 
lous bag,  that  all  the  fellows  snigger  at  behind  her 
back." 

"  You  should  not  let  any  fellow  laugh  at  your  sister, 
Phil " 

"  Oh,  as  for  that!  they  are  all  as  thick  with  her  as  I 
am,  and  why  should  I  interfere  ?  But  I  promise  you 
nobody  shall  cut  a  joke  upon  my  Nell." 

"I  should  hope  not,  indeed, "said  Elinor,  indignant ; 
"  but  as  for  your  '  fellows,'  Phil,  as  you  call  them,  you 
mustn't  be  angry  with  me,  but  I  don't  much  like  those 
gentlemen  ;  they  are  a  little  rude  and  rough.  They 
shall  not  call  me  by  my  Christian  name,  or  anything 
but  my  own  formal " 

"  Mrs.  Compton,"  he  said,  seizing  her  in  his  arms, 
"  you  little  duck  !  they'll  be  as  frightened  of  you  as 
if  you  were  rifry.  But  you  mustn't  spoil  good  company, 
Nell.  I  shall  like  you  to  keep  them  at  a  distance,  but 
you  mustn't  go  too  far  ;  and,  above  all,  my  pet,  you 
mustn't  put  out  the  Jew.  I  calculate  on  being  a  lot 
there  ;  they  have  a  nice  house  and  a  good  table,  and  all 
that,  and  Prestwich  is  glad  of  somebody  to  help  about 
his  horses.  You  mustn't  set  up  any  of  your  airs  with 
the  Jew." 


TUB  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  95 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  my  airs,  PhiL" 

"  Oh,  but  I  do,  and  they're  delicious,  Nell  :  half  like 
a  little  girl  and  half  like  a  queen  :  but  it  will  never  do 
to  make  the  Jew  feel  small  in  her  own  set.  Hallo ! 
there's  some  one  tumbling  alone  over  the  stones  on  that 
precious  road  of  yours.  I  believe  it's  that  cart  from  the 
station  after  all." 

"  No,"  said  Elinor,  "  it  is  only  one  of  the  tradespeople. 
You  certainly  are  anxious  about  those  carts  from  the 
station,  Phil." 

"  Not  a  bit !  "  he  said,  and  then,  after  a  moment,  he 
added,  "  Yes,  on  the  whole,  I'd  much  rather  the  man 
came,  if  he's  coming  while  I'm  here,  and  while  you  are 
with  me,  Nell ;  for  I  want  you  to  stick  to  me,  and  back 
me  up.  They  might  think  I  ought  to  go  after  that 
manager  fellow  and  spoil  the  wedding.  Therefore  mind 
you  back  me  up." 

"  I  can't  think,  dear  Phil,  what  there  is  for  me  to  do. 
I  know  nothing  about  the  business  nor  what  has  hap- 
pened. You  never  told  me  anything,  and  how  can  I 
back  you  up  about  things  I  don't  know  ?  " 

"  Oh,  3res,  you  can,"  he  said,  "  you'll  soon  see  if  the 
fellow  comes  ;  just  you  stand  by  me,  whatever  I  say. 
You  mayn't  know — or  even  I  may  seem  to  make  a  mis- 
take ;  but  you  know  me  if  you  don't  know  the  circum- 
stances, and  I  hope  you  can  trust  me,  Xell,  that  it  will 
be  all  right." 

"  But "  said  Elinor,  confused. 

"  Don't  go  on  with  your  buts  ;  there's  a  darling, 
don't  contradict  me.  There  is  nothing  looks  so  silly  to 
strangers  as  a  woman  contradicting  every  word  a  fellow 
.says.  I  only^want  you  to  stand  by  me,  don't  you  know, 
t hat's  all ;  and  I'll  tell  you  everything  about  it  after, 
when  there's  time." 

"Tell  me  about  it  now,"  said  Elinor;  "you  may 
be  sure  I  shall  be  interested  ;  there's  plenty  of  tirna 
now." 

"  Talk  about  busino>>  to  you  !  when  I've  only  a  single 

.n d  not  half  time  enough,  you  little  duck,  to  tell 

you  what  a  darling  you  are,  and  how  I  count  every 


96  TUti  MAURI ALiE   OF  ELINOtf. 

hour  till  I  can  have  you  all  to  myself.     Ah,  Nell,  Nell, 
if  that  clay  were  only  here " 

And  then  Phil  turned  to  those  subjects  and  those 
methods  which  cast  so  much  confusion  into  the  mind  of 
Mrs.  Dennistoun,  when  practised  under  her  sedate  and 
middle-aged  eyes.  But  Elinor,  as  has  been  said,  did 
not  take  exactly  the  same  view. 

Presently  they  went  to  luncheon,  and  Phil  secured 
himself  a  place  at  table  commanding  the  road.  "I 
never  knew  before  how  jolly  it  was,"  he  said,  "  though 
everything  is  jolly  here.  And  that  peep  of  the  road 
must  give  you  warning  when  any  invasion  is  coming." 

"It  is  too  far  off  for  that,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun. 

"  Oh,  no,  not  for  sharp  eyes.  Nell  there  told  me  who 
several  people  were — those  white  horses — the  people  at 
— where  did  you  say,  Nell  ?  " 

"  Reddown,  mamma — the  Philistines,  as  you  call 
them,  that  are  always  dashing  about  the  country — 
nouveaux  riches,  with  the  finest  horses  in  the  county." 

"I  like  the  noui-eaux  riches  for  that,"  said  Phil  (he 
did  not  go  wrong  in  his  French,  which  was  a  great  con- 
solation to  Elinor),  "  they  like  to  have  the  best  of  every- 
thing. Your  poor  swell  has  to  take  what  he  can  get, 
but  the  parvenu's  the  man  in  these  days  ;  and  theu 
there  was  a  dog-cart,  which  she  pronounced  to  be  from 
the  station,  but  which  turned  out  to  be  the  butcher,  or 
the  baker,  or  the  candle-stick  maker — 

"  It  is  really  too  far  off  to  make  sure  of  anything,  ex- 
cept white  horses." 

"Ah,  there's  no  mistaking  them.  I  see  something 
sweeping  along,  but  that's  a  country  wagon,  I  suppose. 
It  gives  me  a  great  deal  of  diversion  to  see  the  people 
:on  the  road — which  perhaps  you  will  think  a  vulgar 
amusement." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  politely,  but  she 
thought  within  herself  how  empty  the  brain  must  be 
which  sought  diversion  from  the  distant  carriages  pass- 
ing two  mil^s  off:  to  be  sure  across  the  combe,  as  the 
crow  flies,  it  was  not  a  quarter  part  so  far  as  that. 

"  Phil  thinks  some  one  may  possibly  come  to  him  on 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR.  ',»7 

business — to  explain  things,"  said  Elinor,  anxious  on 
her  part  to  make  it  clear  that  it  was  not  out  of  mere 
vacancy  that  her  lover  had  watched  so  closely  the  car- 
riages on  the  road. 

"  Unfortunately,  there  is  something  like  a  smash,"  he 
said  ;  "  they'll  keep  it  out  of  the  papers  if  they  can,  but 
you  may  see  it  in  the  papers  ;  the  manager  has  run 
away,  and  there's  a  question  about  some  books.  I  don't 
suppose  you  would  understand — they  may  come  to  me 
here  about  it,  or  they  may  wait  till  I  go  back  to  town." 

"I  thought  you  were  going  to  Ireland,  Phil." 

"  So  I  shah1,  probably,  just  for  three  days — to  fill  up 
the  time.  One  wants  to  be  doing  something  to  keep 
one's  self  down.  You  can't  keep  quiet  and  behave  your- 
self when  you  are  going  to  be  married  in  a  week  :  un- 
less you're  a  little  chit  of  a  girl  without  any  feelings," 
he  said  with  a  laugh.  And  Elinor  laughed  too  ;  while 
Mrs.  Deunistouu  sat  as  grave  as  a  judge  at  the  head  of 
the  table.  But  Phil  was  not  daunted  by  her  serious 
face  :  so  long  as  the  road  was  quite  clear  he  had  all  the 
appearance  of  a  perfectly  easy  mind. 

"  We  have  been  talking  about  literature,"  he  said. 
"  I  am  a  stupid  fellow,  as  perhaps  you  know,  for  that 
sort  of  thing.  But  Nell  is  to  indoctrinate  me.  "We 
mean  to  take  a  big  box  of  books,  and  I'm  to  be  made  to 
read  poetry  and  all  sorts  of  fine  things  in  my  honey- 
moon." 

"  That  is  a  new  idea,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun.  "  I 
thought  Elinor  meant  to  give  up  reading,  on  the  other 
hand,  to  make  things  square." 

There  was  a  little  breath  of  a  protest  from  Elinor. 
"  Oh,  mamma!  "  but  she  left  the  talk  (he  could  do  it  so 
much  better)  in  Compton's  hand. 

"  I  expect  to  figure  as  a  sort  of  prodigy  in  my  fami- 
ly," he  said  ;  "  we're  not  bookish.  The  Jew  goes  in  for 
French  novels,  but  I  don't  intend  to  let  Nell  touch 
them,  so  you  may  be  easy  in  your  mind." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  Lady  Mariamne  makes  a  good  se- 
lection," said  Mrs.  Dennistoun. 

"  Not  she  !  she  reads  whatever  comes,  and  the  more 


98  THE  MARRIAGE   OF   fttl 


salt  the  better.  The  Jew  is  quite  an  emancipated  per- 
son. Don't  you  think  she'll  bore  you  rather  in  this 
little  house?  She  carries  bales  of  rubbish  with  her 
wherever  she  goes,  and  her  maid,  and  her  dog,  and  I 
don't  know  what.  If  I  were  you  I'd  write,  or  better 
wire,  and  tell  her  there's  a  capital  train  from  Victoria 
will  bring  her  here  in  time  for  the  wedding,  and  that 
it's  a  thousand  pities  she  should  disturb  herself  to  come 
for  the  night." 

"If  your  sister  can  put  up  with  rny  small  accommo- 
dation, I  shall  of  course  be  happy  to  have  her,  what- 
ever she  brings  with  her,"  Mrs.  Deunistoun  said. 

"  Oh  !  it's  not  a  question  of  putting  up  —  she'd  be 
delighted,  I'm  sure  :  but  I  think  you'll  find  her  a  great 
bore.  She  is  exceedingly  fussy  when  she  has  not  all 
her  things  about  her.  However,  you  must  judge  for 
yourself.  But  if  you  think  better  of  it,  wire  a  few 
words,  and  it'll  be  all  right.  I'm  to  go  to  the  old  Rec- 
tory, Nell  says." 

"It  is  not  a  particularly  old  Rectory  ;  it  is  a  very 
nice,  pleasant  house.  I  .think  you  will  find  yourself 
<juite  comfortable  —  you  and  the  gentleman  — 

"  Dick  Bolsover,  who  is  going  to  see  me  through  it  : 
and  I  daresay  I  should  not  sleep  much,  if  I  were  in  the 
most  luxurious  bed  in  the  world.  They  say  a  man  who 
is  going  to  be  hanged  sleeps  like  a  top,  but  I  don't 
think  I  shall  ;  what  do  you  say,  Nell  ?" 

"Elinor,  I  should  think,  could  have  no  opinion  on 
the  subject,"  said  Mrs.  Deuuistouu,  pale  with  anger. 
"  You  will  all  dine  here,  of  course.  Some  other  friends 
are  coming,  and  a  cousin,  Mr.  Tatham,  of  Tatham's 
Cross." 

"Is  that,"  said  Phil,   "  the  Cousin  John  ?  " 

"John,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  is  abroad;  the  long  vaca- 
tion is  the  worst  time.  It  is  his  father  who  is  coming, 
and  his  sister,  Mary  Tatham,  who  is  Elinor's  brides- 
maid —  she  and  Miss  Hudson  at  the  Rectory." 

"  Only  two  ;  and  very  sensible,  instead  of  the  train 
one  sees,  all  thinking  ho\v  best  to  show  themselves  oil'. 
Dick  Bolsover  is  man  enough  to  tackle  them  both.  He 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  99 

expects  some  fun,  I  can  tell  you.  What  is  there  to  be 
after  we  are  gone,  Nell?"  He  stopped  aud  looked 
round  with  a  laugh,  "  Kather  close  quarters  for  a  ball," 
he  said. 

"  There  will  be  no  ball.  You  forget  that  when  you 
take  Elinor  away  I  shall  be  alone.  A  solitary  woman 
living  in  a  cottage,  as  you  remark,  does  not  give  balls. 
I  am  much  afraid  that  there  will  be  very  little  fun  for 
your  friend." 

"  Oh,  he'll  amuse  himself  well  enough  ;  he's  the  sort 
of  fellow  who  always  makes  himself  at  home.  A  Rec- 
tory will  be  great  fun  for  him  ;  I  don't  suppose  he  was 
ever  in  one  before,  unless  perhaps  when  he  was  a  boy 
at  school.  Yes,  as  you  say — what  a  lot  of  trouble  it 
will  be  for  you  to  be  sure  :  not  as  if  Nell  had  a  sister 
to  enjoy  the  fun  after.  It's  a  thousand  pities  you  did 
not  decide  to  bring  her  up  to  town,  and  get  us  shuffled 
off  there.  You  might  have  got  a  little  house  for  next 
to  nothing  at  this  time  of  the  year,  and  saved  all  the 
row,  turning  everything  upside  down  in  this  nice  little 
place,  and  troubling  yourself  with  visitors  and  so  forth. 
But  one  always  thinks  of  that  sort  of  thing  too  late." 

"I  should  not  have  adopted  such  an  expedient  in  any 
case.  Elinor  must  be  married  among  her  own  people, 
wherever  her  lot  may  be  cast  afterwards.  Everybody 
here  has  known  her  ever  since  she  was  born." 

"  Ah,  that's  a  thing  ladies  think  of,  I  suppose,"  said 
Compton.  He  had  stuck  his  glass  into  his  eye  and  was 
gazing  out  of  the  window.  "  Very  jolly  view,"  he  con- 
tinued. "And  what's  that,  Nell,  raising  clouds  of  dust? 
I  haven't  such  quick  eyes  as  you." 

"I  should  think  it  must  be  a  circus  or  a  menagerie, 
or  something,  mamma." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Mrs.  Denuistouu.  "  They  some- 
times come  this  way  on  the  road  to  Portsmouth,  and 
give  little  representations  in  all  the  villages,  to  the 
great  excitement  of  the  country  folk." 

"  We  are  the  country  folk,  and  I  feel  quite  excited," 
said  Phil,  dropping  his  glass.  "Nell,  if  there's  a  repre- 
sentation, you  and  I  will  go  to-night." 


100  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

"  Oh,  Phil,  what "  Elinor  was  about  to  say  folly  : 

but  she  paused,  seeing  a  look  in  his  eye  which  she  had 
already  learned  to  know,  and  added  "fun,"  in  a  voice 
which  sounded  almost  like  an  echo  of  his  own. 

"There  is  nothing  like  being  out  iu  the  wilderness 
like  this  to  make  one  relish  a  little  fun,  eh  ?  I  daresay 
you  always  go.  The  Jew  is  the  one  for  every  village 
fair  within  ten  miles  when  she  is  in  the  country.  She 
says  they're  better  than  anv  play.  Hallo  !  what  is 
that?" 

"  It  is  some  one  coming  round  the  gravel  path." 

A  moi-e  simple  statement  could  not  be,  but  it  made 
Compton  strangely  uneasy.  He  rose  up  hastily  from 
the  table.  "  It  is,  perhaps,  the  man  I  am  looking  for. 
If  you'll  permit  me,  I'll  go  and  see." 

He  went  out  of  the  room,  calling  Elinor  by  a  look 
and  slight  movement  of  his  head,  but  when  he  came 
out  into  the  hall  was  met  by  a  trim  clerical  figure  and 
genial  countenance,  the  benign  yet  self-assured  looks 
of  the  Rector  of  the  Parish :  none  other  could  this 
smiling  yet  important  personage  be. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  Rector  came  in  with  his  smiling  and  rosy  face. 
He  was,  as  many  of  his  parishioners  thought,  a  picture 
of  a  country  clergyman.  Such  a  healthy  colour,  as  clear 
as  a  girl's,  limpid  blue  eyes,  with  very  light  eyelashes 
and  eyebrows;  a  nice  round  face,  "beautifully  mod- 
elled," according  to  Miss  Sarah  Hill,  who  did  a  little  in 
that  way  herself,  and  knew  how  to  approve  of  a  Higher 
Sculptor's  work.  And  then  the  neatest  and  blackest  of 
coats,  and  the  whitest  and  stiffest  of  collars.  Mr.  Hud- 
son, I  need  scarcely  say,  was  not  so  left  to  himself  as  to 
permit  his  clerical  character  to  be  divined  by  means  of 
a  white  tie.  He  came  in,  as  was  natural  among  coun- 
try neighbours,  without  thinking  of  any  bell  or  knocker 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  101 

ou  the  easily  opened  door,  and  was  about  to  peep  into 
the  drawing-room  with  "Anybody  in?"  upon  his  smil- 
ing lips,  when  he  saw  a  gentleman  approaching,  picking 
up  his  hat  as  he  advanced.  Mr.  Hudson  paused  a  mo- 
ment in  uncertainty.  "Mr.  Compton,  I  am  sure,"  he 
said,  holding  out  both  of  his  plump  pink  hands.  "Ah, 
Elinor  too !  I  was  sure  I  could  not  be  mistaken.  And 
I  am  exceedingly  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance." 
He  shook  Phil's  hand  up  and  down  in  a  sort  of  see- 
saw. "  Very  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance  !  though 
you  are  the  worst  enemy  Windyhill  has  had  for  many  a 
day— carrying  off  the  finest  lamb  in  all  the  fold." 

"Yes,  I'm  a  wolf,  I  suppose,"  said  Phil.  He  went  to 
the  door  and  took  a  long  look  out  while  Elinor  led  the 
Rector  into  the  drawing-room.  Then  Mr.  Compton 
lounged  in  after  them,  with  his  hands  iu  his  pockets, 
and  placed  himself  in  the  bow-window,  where  he  could 
still  see  the  white  line  across  the  combe  of  the  distant 
road. 

"  They'll  think  I  have  stolen  a  march  upon  them  all, 
Elinor,"  said  the  Rector,  "  chancing  upon  Mr.  Comp- 
ton like  this,  a  quite  unexpected  pleasure.  I  shall  keep 
them  on  the  tenterhooks,  asking  them  whom  they  sup- 
pose I  have  met  ?  and  they  will  give  everybody  but  the 
right  person.  What  a  thing  for  me  to  have  been  the 
fii-st  person  to  see  your  intended,  my  dear !  and  I  con- 
gratulate you,  Elinor,"  said  the  Rector,  dropping  his 
voice  ;  "  a  tine  handsome  fellow,  and  such  an  air!  You 
are  a  lucky  girl — "  he  paused  a  little  and  said,  with  a 
slight  hesitation,  in  a  whisper,  "  so  far  as  meets  the 
eye." 

"  Oh,  Mi\  Hudson,  don't  spoil  everything,"  said  Eli- 
nor, in  the  same  tone. 

"  Well,  I  cannot  tell,  can  I,  my  dear? — the  first  peep 
I  have  had."  He  cleared  his  throat  and  raised  his 
voice.  "  I  believe  we  are  to  have  the  pleasure  of  enter- 
taining you,  Mr.  Compton,  on  a  certain  joyf  ul  occasion 
(joyful  to  you,  not  to  us).  I  need  not  say  how  pleased 
my  wife  and  I  and  the  other  members  of  the  family  will 
be.  There  are  not  very  many  of  us — we  are  only  five 


102  THE  MARRIAGE    OF  ELINOR. 

in  number — my  son,  and  my  daughter,  and  Miss  Dale, 
my  wife's  sister,  but  much  younger  than  Mrs.  Hudson 
— who  has  done  us  the  pleasure  of  staying  with  us  for 
part  of  the  year.  I  think  she  has  met  you  somewhere, 
or  knows  some  of  your  family,  _>r — something.  She  is 
a  great  authority  on  noble  families.  I  don't  know 
whether  it  is  because  she  has  been  a  good  deal  in  so- 
ciety, or  whether  it  is  out  of  Debrett " 

"Nell,  come  and  tell  me  what  this  is,"  Compton 
said. 

"Oh,  Phil!  it  is  nothing,  it  is  a  carriage.  I  don't 
know  what  it  is.  Be  civil  to  the  Rector,  please." 

"So  I  am,  perfectly  civil." 

"  You  have  not  answered  a  single  word,  and  he  has 
been  talking  to  you  for  ten  minutes." 

"Well,  but  he  hasn't  said  anything  that  I  can  answer. 
He  says  Miss  Something  or  other  knows  my  family. 
Perhaps  she  does.  Well,  much  good  may  it  do  her  ! 
but  what  can  I  say  to  that  ?  I  am  sure  I  don't  know 
hers.  I  didn't  come  here  to  be  talked  to  by  the  Rec- 
tor. Could  we  slip  out  and  leave  him  with  your 
mother  ?  That  would  suit  his  book  a  great  deal  better. 
Come,  let's  go." 

"  Oh !  he  is  speaking  to  you,  Phil." 

Compton  turned  round  and  eyed  the  Rector.  "Yes?" 
he  said  in  so  marked  an  interrogative  that  Mr.  Hudson 
stopped  short  and  flushed.  He  had  been  talking  for 
some  time. 

"  Oh !  I  was  not  precisely  asking  a  question,"  he 
said,  in  his  quiet  tones.  "  I  was  saying  that  we  believe 
and  hope  that  another  gentleman  is  coming  with  you — 
for  the  occasion." 

"Dick  Bolsover,"  said  Compton,  "a  son  of  Lord 
Freshfield's ;  perhaps  Miss ,  the  lady  you  were  talk- 
ing of,  may  know  his  family  too.  His  brother  got  a 
little  talked  of  in  that  affair  about  Fille  d'Or,  don't  you 
know,  at  Newmarket.  But  Dick  is  a  rattling  good 
fellow,  doesn't  race,  and  has  no  vices.  He  is  coming  to 
stand  by  me  and  see  that  all's  right." 

"  We  shall  be  happy  to  see  Mr.  Bolsover,  I  am  sure." 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

The  Rector  rubbed  his  hands  and  said  to  himself  with 
pleasure  that  two  Honourables  in  his  quiet  house  was 
•something  to  think  of,  and  that  he  hoped  it  would  riot 
turn  the  heads  of  the  ladies,  and  make  Alice  expect — 
one  couldn't  tell  what.  And  then  he  said,  by  way  of 
changing  yet  continuing  the  subject,  "I  suppose  you've 
been  looking  at  the  presents.  Elinor  must  have  shown 
you  her  presents." 

"By  Jove,  I  never  thought  of  the  presents.  Have 
you  got  a  lot,  Nell  ?  " 

"  She  has  got,  if  I  may  be  allowed  to  answer  for  her, 
having  known  her  all   her  life,  a  great  many  pretty 
things,  Mr.  Compton.     We  are  not  rich,  to  be  sure,  her 
old  friends  here.     We  have  to  content  ourselves  with 
but  a  small  token  of  a  great  deal  of  affection  ;  but  still 
there  are  a  number  of  pretty  things.    Elinor,  what  were 
you  thinking  of,  my  dear,  not  to  show  Mr.  Compton 
the   little   set  out   which   you   showed   us?       Come,    I 
should  myself  like  to  look  them  over  again." 

Phil  gave  another  long  look  at  the  distant  road,  and 
then  he  thrust  his  arm  into  Elinor's  and  said,  "  To  be 
sure,  come  along,  Nell.  It  will  be  something  to  do." 
He  did  not  wait  for  the  Rector  to  pass  first,  which  Eli- 
nor thought  would  have  been  better  manners,  but 
thrust  her  before  him  quite  regardless  of  the  older  peo- 
ple. '•  Let's  see  the  trumpery,"  he  said. 

"  Don't  use  such  a  word,  Phil :  the  Rector  will  be 
so  hurt." 

"  Oh,  will  he  ?  did  he  work  you  an — antimacassar  or 
something  ?  " 

"Phil,  speak  low  at  least.  No,  but  his  daughter 
did  ;  and  they  gave  me " 

"  I  know  :  a  cardcase  or  a  button-hook,  or  something. 
And  how  many  biscuit-boxes  have  you  got,  and  clocks, 
and  that  sort  of  thing  ?  I  advise  you  to  have  an  auc- 
tion as  soon  as  we  get  away.  Hallo  !  that's  a  nice  little 
thing  ;  look  pretty  on  your  pretty  white  neck  I  should 
say,  Nell.  Who  gave  you  that  ? "  He  took  John's 
necklace  out  of  its  box  where  it  had  lain  undisturbed 
until  now,  and  pulled  it  through  his  fingers.  "  Cost  3 


10-1-  THE  MARRIAGE  OF 

pretty  bit  of  money  that,  I  should  say.  You  can  raise 
the  wind  on  it  when  we're  down  on  our  luck,  Nell." 

"  My  cousin  John,  whom  you  have  heard  me  speak 
of,  gave  me  that,  Phil,"  said  Elinor,  with  great  gravity. 
She  thought  it  necessary,  she  could  scarcely  tell  why, 
to  make  a  stand  for  her  cousin  John. 

"  Ah,  I  thought  it  was  one  of  the  disappointed  ones," 
said  Phil,  flinging  it  back  carelessly  onto  the  bed  of 
white  velvet  where  it  had  been  fitted  so  exactly. 
"That's  how  they  show  their  spite;  for  of  course  I 
can't  give  you  anything  half  as  good  as  that." 

il  There  was  no  disappointment  in  the  matter,"  said 
Elinor,  almost  angry  witk  the  misconceptions  of  her 
lover. 

"You  are  a  nice  one,"  said  Compton,  taking  her  by 
the  chin,  "  to  tell  me  !  as  if  I  didn't  know  the  world  a 
long  sight  better  than  you  do,  my  little  Nell." 

The  Rector,  who  was  following  slowly,  for  he  did  not 
like  to  go  up-stairs  in  a  hurry,  saw  this  attitude  and 
drew  back,  a  little  scandalized.  "  Perhaps  we  were  in- 
discreet to — to  follow  them  too  closely,"  he  said,  dis- 
concerted. "Please  to  go  in  first,  Mrs.  Dennistouu — 
the  young  couple  will  not  mind  you." 

Mr.  Hudson  was  prim,,  but  he  was  rather  pleased  to 
see  that  "  the  young  couple  "  were,  as  he  said,  so  fond 
of  each  other.  He  went  into  the  room  under  the  pro- 
tection of  the  mother — blushing  a  little.  It  reminded 
him,  as  he  said  afterwards,  of  his  own  young  days  ;  but 
it  \vus  only  natural  that  he  should  walk  up  direct  to  the 
place  where  his  kettle  stood  conspicuous,  waiting  only 
the  spark  of  a  match  to  begin  to  boil  the  water  for  the 
first  conjugal  ten.  It  appeared  to  him  a  beautiful  idea 
as  he  put  his  head  on  one  side  and  looked  at  it.  It 
was  like  the  inauguration  of  the  true  British  fireside, 
the  cosy  privacy  in  which,  after  the  man  had  done  his 
work,  the  lady  awaited  him  at  home,  with  the  tea-kettle 
steaming.  A  generation  before  Mr.  Hudson  there 
would  have  been  a  pair  of  slippers  airing  beside  the 
fire.  But  neither  of  these  preparations  supply  the 
ideal  of  perfect  happiness  now. 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  105 

"  I  say,  where  did  you  get  these  hideous  things?" 
said  Compton,  approaching  the  table  on  which  "  the 
silver  "  was  laid  out.  By  a  special  dispensation  it  was 
Lady  Marianme's  dishes  which  caught  Phil's  attention. 
"Some  old  grandmother,  I  suppose,  that  had  'em  in 
the  house.  Hallo  !  if  it  isn't  the  Jew  !  Nell,  you  don't 
mean  to  tell  me  you  got  these  horrors  from  the  Jew?  " 

"They  are  supposed  to  be — quite  handsome,"  said 
Elinor,  with  a  suppressed  laugh.  "  We  must  not  criti- 
cise. It  is  very  kind  of  people  to  send  presents  at  all. 
We  all  know  it  is  a  very  severe  tax — to  those  who  have 
a  great  many  friends "  / 

"  The  stingy  old  miser,"  said  Compton.  "  Boiling  in 
money,  and  to  send  you  these  !  By  Jove  !  there's  a 
neat  little  thing  now  that  looks  what  it  is  ;  probably 

one  of  your  nice  country  friends,  Nell "    (It  was  the 

kettle,  as  a  kind  Providence  decreed  ;  and  both  the 
ladies  breathed  an  internal  thanksgiving.)  "Shows 
like  a  little  gem  beside  that  old,  thundering,  mean- 
spirited  Jew !  " 

"That,"  said  the  Rector,  bridling  a  little  and  pink 
with  pleasure,  "  is  our  little  offering  :  and  I'm  delighted 
to  think  that  it  should  please  so  good  a  judge.  It  was 
chosen  with  great  care.  I  saw  it  first  myself,  and  the 
idea  flashed  upon  me — quite  an  inspiration — that  it 
was  the  very  thing  for  Elinor  ;  and  when  I  went  home 
I  told  my  wife  —  the  very  thing — for  her  boudoir, 
should  she  not  be  seeing  company — or  just  for  your 
little  teas  when  you  are  by  yourselves.  I  could  at 
once  imagine  the  dear  girl  looking  so  pretty  in  one  of 
those  wonderful  white  garments  that  are  in  the  next 
room." 

"  Hallo !  "  said  Compton,  with  a  laugh,  "  do  you 
show  off  your  things  in  this  abandoned  way,  Nell,  to 
the  killingest  old  cov " 

She  put  her  hand  up  to  his  mouth  with  a  cry  of  dis- 
may and  laughter,  but  the  Rector,  with  a  smile  and  an- 
other little  blush,  discreetly  turned  his  back.  He  was 
truly  glad  to  see  that  they  were  so  fond  of  each  other, 
!m.l  thought  it  was  pretty  and  innocent  that  they  should 


10G  THE  MARJIIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

not  mind  showing  it — but  it  was  a  little  embarrassing 
for  an  old  and  prim  clergyman  to  look  on. 

""What  a  pleasure  at  must  be  to  you,  my  dear  lady," 
he  said  when  the  young  couple  had  gone  :  which  took 
place  very  soon,  for  Phil  soon  grew  tired  of  the  pres- 
ents, and  he  was  ill  at  ease  when  there  was  no  window 
from  which  he  could  watch  the  road — "  Vhat  a  pleasure 
to  see  them  so  much  attached  !  Of  course,  family  ad- 
vantage and  position  is  always  of  importance — but 
when  you  get  devoted  affection,  too : 

"  I  hope  there  is  devoted  affection,"  said  Mrs.  Den- 
nistoun  ;  "  at  all  events,  there  is  what  we  are  all  united 
in  calling  '  love,'  for  the  present.  He  is  in  love  with 
Elinor — I  don't  think  there  can  be  much  doubt  of 
that." 

"  I  did  not  of  course  know  that  he  was  here,"  said 
the  Rector,  with  some  hesitation.  "  I  came  with  the 
intention  of  speaking — I  am  very  sorry  to  see  in  the 
papers  to-day  something  about  that  Joint-Stock  Com- 
pany of  which  Mr.  Compton  was  a  director.  It's  rather 
a  mysterious  paragraph  :  but  it's  something  about  the 
manager  having  absconded,  and  that  some  of  the  direc- 
tors are  said  to  be  involved." 

"Do  you  mean  my  future  son-in-law?"  she  said, 
turning  quickly  upon  him. 

"  Good  heavens,  no  !  I  wouldn't  for  the  world  insin- 
uate  It  was  only  that  one  felt  a  desire  to  know.  Just 

upon  the  eve  of  a  marriage  it's — it's  alarming  to  hear 
of  a  business  the  bridegroom  is  involved  in  being — 
what  you  may  call  broken  up." 

"  That  was  one  of  the  things  Mr.  Comptou  came  to 
tell  us  about,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun.  "He  said  he 
hopc;l  it  might  be  kept  out  of  the  papers,  but  that 
some  of  the  books  have  got  lost  or  destroyed.  I  am 
afraid  I  know  very  little  about  business.  But  he  has 
lost  very  little — nothing  to  speak  of — which  was  all 
that  concerned  me." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  the  Rector,  but  in  a  tone  not  so 
assured  as  his  words.  "It  is  not  perhaps  quite  a  nice 
thing  to  be  director  of  a  company  that — that  collapses 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  107 

in  this  way.  I  fear  some  poor  people  will  lose  their 
money.  1  fear  there  will  be  things  in  the  papers." 

"On  what  ground?"  she  said.  "Oh,  I  don't  deny 
there  may  be  some  one  to  blame  ;  but  Mr.  Compton 
was,  I  suspect,  only  on  the  board  for  the  sake  of  his 
name.  He  is  not  a  business  man.  He  did  it,  as  so 
many  do,  for  the  sake  of  a  pretence  of  being  in  some- 
thing. And  then,  I  believe,  the  directors  got  a  little 
by  it  ;  they  had  a  few  hundreds  a  year." 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Mr.  Hudson,  but  still  doubtfully; 
and  then  he  brightened  up.  "For  my  part,  I  don't 
believe  there  is  a  word  of  truth  in  it.  Since  I  have 
seen  him,  indeed,  I  have  quite  changed  my  opinion — 
a  fine  figure  of  a  man,  looking  an  aristocrat  every  inch 
of  him.  Such  a  contrast  and  complement  to  our  dear 
Elinor— and  so  fond  of  her.  A  man  like  that  would 
never  have  a  hand  in  any  sham  concern.  If  it  was  really 
a  bogus  company,  as  people  say,  he  must  be  one  of  the 
sufferers.  That  is  quite  my  decided  opinion  ;  only  the 
ladies,  you  know — the  ladies  who  have  not  seen  him, 
and  who  are  so  much  more  saspicious  by  nature  (I 
don't  know  that  you  are,  my  dtar  Mrs.  Dennistoun), 
would  give  me  no  rest.  They  thought  it  was  my 
duty  to  interfere.  But  I  am  sure  they  are  quite 
wrong." 

To  think  that  it  was  the  ladies  of  the  Rector's  family 
who  were  interfering  made  Mrs.  Dennistoun  very  wroth. 
"  Next  time  they  have  anything  to  say,  you  should 
make  them  come  themselves,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  they  would  not  do  that.  They  say  it  is  the 
clergyman's  business,  not  theirs.  Besides,  you  know,  I 
have  not  time  to  read  all  the  papers.  We  get  the  TV///?.*, 
and* Mary  Dale  has  the  Morning  Poxt,  and  another  thing 
thai  is  all  about  stocks  and  shares.  She  has  such  a 
head  for  business — far  more  than  I  can  pretend  to.  She 
thought " 

"  Mr.  Hudson,  I  fear  I  do  not  wish  to  know  what 
was  thought  by  Miss  Dale." 

""Well,  you  are,  perhaps,  right,  Mis.  Dennistoun. 
She  is  only  a  woman,  of  course,  and  she  ma,y  make 


108  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

mistakes.  It  is  astonishing,  though,  how  often  she  is 
right.  She  has  a  head  for  business  that  might  do  for  a 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer.  She  made  me  sell  out 
my  shares  iu  that  Red  Gulch — those  American  invest- 
ments have  most  horrible  names — just  a  week  before 
the  smash  came,  all  from  what  she  had  read  in  the 
papers.  She  knows  how  to  put  things  together,  you 
see.  So  I  have  reason  to  be  grateful  to  her,  for  my 
part." 

"  And  what  persuaded  you,  here  at  Windyhill,  a 
quiet  clergyman,  to  put  money  in  any  Red  Gulch  ?  It 
is  a  horrible  name  ! " 

"Oh,  it  was  Mary,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Hudson. 
"  She  is  always  looking  out  for  new  investments.  She 
said  we  should  all  make  our  fortunes.  "We  did  not, 
unfortunately.  But  she  is  so  clever,  she  got  us  out  of 
it  with  only  a  very  small  loss  indeed." 

"  No  doubt  she  is  very  clever.  I  wish,  though,  that 
she  would  let  us  know  definitely  ori  what  ground — 

"Oh,  there  is  no  ground,"  cried  the  Rector.  "  Now 
that  I  have  seen  Mr.  Compton  I  am  certain  of  it.  I 
said  to  her  before  I  left  the  Rectory,  'Now,  my  dear 
Mary,  I  am  going  like  a  lamb  to  the  slaughter.  I  have 
no  reason  to  give  if  Mrs.  Dennistoun  should  ask  me, 
and  you  have  no  reason  to  give.  And  she  will  probably 
put  me  to  the  door.'  If  I  said  that  before  I  started, 
you  may  fancy  how  much  more  I  feel  it  now,  when  I 
have  made  Mr.  Compton's  acquaintance.  A  fine  aristo- 
cratic face,  and  all  the  ease  of  high  breeding.  There 
are  only  three  lives — and  those  not  very  good  ones — 
between  him  and  the  title,  I  believe?" 

"Two  robust  brothers,  and  an  invalid  who  will  prob- 
ably outlive  them  all ;  that  is,  I  believe,  the  state  of  the 
case."  • 

"  Dear  me,  what  a  pity  !  "  said  the  Rector,  "  for  our 
little  Elinor  would  have  made  a  sweet  little  Countess. 
She  would  grow  a  noble  lady,  like  the  one  in  Mr.  Tenny- 
son's poem.  Well,  now  I  must  be  going,  and  I  am  ex- 
tremely glad  to  have  been  so  lucky  as  to  come  in  just 
in  time.  It  has  been  the  greatest  pleasure  to  me  to  see 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  10U 

them  together — such  a  loving  couple.  Dear  me,  like 
what  one  reads  about,  or  remembers  in  old  days,  not 
like  the  commonplace  pairs  one  has  to  do  with  now." 

Mrs.  Dennistoun  accompanied  the  Rector  to  the 
garden  gate.  She  was  half  inclined  to  laugh  aud  half 
to  be  angry,  and  in  neither  mood  did  Mr.  Hudson's  in- 
sinuations which  he  made  so  innocently  have  much 
effect  upon  her  mind.  But  when  she  took  leave  of  him 
at  the  gate  and  came  slowly  back  among  her  brilliant 
flower-beds,  pausing  here  and  there  mechanically  to 
\  pick  off  a  withered  leaf  or  prop  up  the  too  heavy  head 
of  a  late  rose,-  her  mind  began  to  take  another  turn. 
She  had  always  been  conscious  of  an  instinctive  sus- 
picion in  respect  to  her  daughter's  lover.  Probably 
only,  she  said  to  herself,  because  he  was  her  daughter's 
lover,  and  she  was  jealous  of  the  new  devotion  that 
withdrew  from  her  so  completely  the  young  creature 
who  had  been  so  fully  her  own.  That  is  a  hard  trial 
for  a  woman  to  undergo.  It  is  only  to  be  borne  when 
she,  too,  is  fascinated  by  her  future  son-in-law,  as  hap- 
pen's  in  some  fortunate  cases.  Otherwise,  a  woman 
with  an  only  child  is  an  alarming  critic  to  encounter. 
She  was  not  fascinated  at  all  by  Phil.  She  was  disap- 
pointed in  Elinor,  and  almost  thought  her  child  not  so 
perfect  as  she  had  believed,  when  it  proved  that  she 
could  be  fascinated  by  this  man.  She  disliked  almost 
everything  about  him — his  looks,  the  very  air  which  the 
Rector  thought  so  aristocratic,  his  fondness  for  Elinor, 
which  was  not  reverential  enough  to  please  the  mother, 
and  his  indifference,  nay,  contempt,  for  herself,  which 
was  not  calculated  to  please  any  woman.  She  had  been 
roused  into  defence  of  him  in  anger  at  the  interference, 
and  at  the  insinuation  which  had  no  proof ;  but  as  that 
anger  died  away,  other  thoughts  came  into  her  mind. 
She  began  to  put  the  broken  facts  together  which  al- 
ready had  roused  her  to  suspicion  :  his  sudden  arrival, 
so  unexpected  ;  walking  from  the  station — a  long,  very 
long  walk — carrying  his  own  bag,  which  was  a  thing 
John  Tatham  did,  but  not  like  Phil  Compton.  And 
then  she  remembered,  suddenly,  his  anxiety  about  the 


110  THE  MARR1AOE   OF  ELINOR. 

carriage  on  the  distant  road,  bis  care  to  place  himself 
where  he  could  see  it.  She  had  thought  with  a  little 
scorn  that  this  was  a  proof  of  his  frivolity,  of  the  neces- 
sity of  seeing  people,  whoever  these  people  might  be. 
But  now  there  began  to  be  in  it  something  that  could 
have  a  deeper  meaning.  For  whom  was  he  looking? 
Who  might  be  coming?  Stories  she  had  heard  of 
fugitives  from  justice,  of  swindlers  taking  refuge  in  the 
innocence  of  "their  families,  came  up  into  her  mind. 
Could  it  be  possible  that  Elinor's  pure  name  could  be 
entangled  in  such  a  guilty  web  as  this  ? 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"  FUNNY  old  poop !  "  said  Compton.  "  And  that  is 
your  Rector,  Nell.  I  shall  tell  Dick  there's  rare  fun  to 
be  had  in  that  house  :  but  not  for  me.  I  know  what  I 
shall  be  thinking  of  all  the  time  I'm  there.  Odious 
little  Nell!  to  interfere  like  this  with  a  fellow's  fun. 
But  I  say,  who's  that  woman  who  knows  me  or  my 
family? — much  good  may  it  do  her,  as  I  said  before. 
Tell  me,  Nell,  did  she  speak  ill  of  me?  " 

"Oh,  Phil,  how  could  you  ask?  or  what  would  it 
matter  if  she  spoke  ever  so  ill  ?" 

"She  did  then,"  he  said  with  a  graver  face.  "Some- 
body was  bound  to  do  it.  And  what  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  Oh,  what  does  it  matter,  Phil?  I  don't  remember  ; 
nothing  of  any  consequence.  We  paid  no  attention,  of 
course,  neither  mamma  nor  I." 

"  That  was  plucky  of  the  old  girl,"  said  Compton. 
"  I  didn't  suppose  you  would  give  ear,  my  Nell.  Ain't 
BO  sure  about  her.  If  I'd  been  your  father,  my  pet,  I 
should  never  have  given  you  to  Phil  Compton.  And 
that's  the  fact :  I  wonder  if  the  old  lady  would  like  to 
reconsider  the  situation  now." 

"  Phil !  "  said  Elinor,  clinging  to  his  arm. 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  best  for  you  if  you  were  to  do 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR.  Ill 

so,  Xell,  or  if  she  were  to  insist  upon  it.  Eh  !  You 
don't  know  ine,  my  darling,  that's  the  fact.  You're  too 
good  to  understand  us.  We're  all  the  same,  from  the 
old  governor  downwards — a  bad  lot.  I  feel  a  kind  of 
remorseful  over  you,  child,  to-day.  That  rosy  old  bloke, 
though  he's  a  snob,  makes  a  man  think  of  innocence 
somehow.  I  do  believe  you  oughtn't  to  marry  me, 
Xell." 

"Oh,  Phil !  what  do  you  mean?  You  cannot  mean 
what  you  say." 

"I  suppose  I  don't,  or  I  shouldn't  say  it,  Nell.  I 
shouldn't  certainly,  if  I  thought  you  were  likely  to  take 
my  advice.  It's  a  kind  of  luxury  to  tell  you  we're  a 
bad  lot,  and  bid  you  throw  me  over,  when  I  know  all 
along  you  won't." 

"  I  should  think  not  indeed,"  she  said,  clinging  to 
him  and  looking  up  in  his  face.  "Do  you  know  what 
•ous —  I  mean  a  friend,  said  to  me  on  that  sub- 
ject? " 

"  You  mean  your  cousin  John,  whom  you  are  always 
quoting.  Let's  hear  what  the  fellow  said." 

"  He  said — that  I  wasn't  a  girl  to  put  up  with  much, 
lruil.  That  I  wasn't  one  of  the  patient  kind,  that  I 

would  not  bear I  don't  know  what  it  was  I  would 

not  bear  ;  but  you  see  you  must  consider  my  defects, 
which  you  can  understand  well  enough,  whether  I  can 
understand  yours  or  not." 

"  That  you  could  not  put  up  with — that  you  could 
not  bear  ?  that  meant  me,  XelL  He  had  been  talking 
to  you  on  the  same  subject,  me  and  my  faults.  Why 
didn't  you  listen  to  him  ?  I  suppose  he  wanted  you  to 
have  him  instead  of  me." 

"  Phil !  how  dare  you  even  think  of  such  a  thing  ?  It 
is  not  true." 

"  Wasn't  it  ?  Then  he  is  a  greater  fool  than  I  took 
him  for,  and  his  opinion's  no  good.  So  you're  a  spit- 
fire, are  you?  Can't  put  up  with  anything  that  doesn't 
suit  you  ?  I  don't  know  that  I  should  have  found  that 
out." 

•'I  am  afraid  though  that  it  is  true,"  she  said,  haL- 


Jl'J  THE  MMililAOE    OF 

laughingly  looking  up  at  him.  "  Perhaps  you  will 
want  to  reconsider  too." 

"If  you  don't  want  it  any  more  than  I  want  it, 

Nell What's  that?"  he  cried  hastily,  changing  his 

expression  and  attitude  in  a  moment.  "  Is  that  one  of 
your  neighbours  at  the  gate  ?  " 

Elinor  looked  round,  starting  away  a  little  from  his 
side,  and  saw  some  one — a  man  she  had  never  seen  be- 
fore— approaching  along  the  path.*  She  was  just  about 
to  say  she  did  not  know  who  it.  was  when  Phil,  to  her 
astonishment,  stepped  past  her,  advancing  to  meet  the 
newcomer.  But  as  he  did  so  he  put  out  his  hand  and 
caught  her  as  he  passed,  leading  her  along  with  him. 

"Mind  what  I  said,  and  stick  to  me,"  he  said,  in  a 
whisper  ;  then — 

"  Stanfield  ! "  he  cried  with  an  air  of  perfect  ease  and 
cordiality,  yet  astonishment.  "I  thought  it  looked  like 
you,  but  I  could  not  believe  my  eyes." 

"  Mr.  Compton !  "  said  the  other.  "  So  you  are  here. 
I  have  been  hunting  after  you  all  over  the  place.  I 
heard  only  this  morning  this  was  a  likely  spot." 

"A  very  likely  spot !"  said  Phil.  "I  suppose  you 
know  the  good  reason  I  have  for  being  in  these  parts. 
Elinor,  this  is  Mr.  Staufield,  who  has  to  do  with  our 
company,  don't  you  know.  But  I  say,  Stanfield,  what's 
all  this  row  in  the  papers?  Is  it  true  that  Brown's 
bolted  ?  I  should  have  taken  the  first  train  to  see  if  I 
could  help  ;  but  my  private  affairs  are  most  urgent  just 
at  this  moment,  as  I  suppose  you  know." 

"I  wish  you  had  come,"  said  the  other  ;  "it  would 
have  looked  well,  and  pleased  the  rest  of  the  directors. 
There  has  been  some  queer  business — some  of  the 
books  abstracted  or  destroyed,  we  can't  tell  which,  and 
no  means  of  knowing  how  we  stand." 

"  Good  Heavens  !  "  said  Phil,  "  to  cover  that  fellow's 
retreat" 

"  II  you  mean  Brown,  it  was  not  he.  They  were  all 
there  safe  enough  after  he  was  gone  ;  somebody  must 
have  got  in  by  night  and  made  off  with  them,  some  one 
that  knew  all  about  the  place  ;  the  watchman  SHW  a 


TITK    U.\RRl.\(!K   OF   KJjyOR.  113 

light,  but  that's  all.  It's  supposed  there  must  have 
been  something  compromising  others  besides  Brown. 
He  could  not  have  cheated  the  company  to  such  an  ex- 
tent by  himself." 

"Good  Heavens ! "  cried  Phil  again  in  natural  horror  ; 
"  I  wish  I  had  followed  my  impulse  and  gone  up  to 
town  straight :  but  it  was  very  vague  what  was  in  the 
papers  ;  I  hoped  it  might  not  have  been  our  place  at 
all.  And  I  say,  Stan  field — who's  the  fellow  they  sus- 
pect ?  "  Elinor  had  disengaged  herself  from  Compton's 
arm  ;  she  perceived  vaguely  that  the  stranger  paused 
before  he  replied,  and  that  Phil,  facing  him  with  a  cer- 
tain square  attitude  of  opposition  which  affected  her 
imagination  vaguely,  though  she  did  not  understand 
why — was  waiting  with  keen  attention  for  his  reply. 
She  said,  a  little  oppressed  by  the  situation,  "Phil, 
perhaps  I  had  better  go." 

"  Don't  go,"  he  said  ;  "  there's  nothing  secret  to  say. 
If  there's  anyone  suspected  it  must  very  soon  be 
known." 

"  It's  difficult  to  say  who  is  suspected,"  said  the 
stranger,  confused.  "  I  don't  know  that  there's  much 
evidence.  You've  been  in  Scotland  ?  " 

"  Yes,  till  the  other  day,  when  I  came  down  here  to 

see "  He  paused  and  turned  upon  Elinor  a  look 

which  gave  the  girl  the  most  curious  incomprehensible 
pang.  It  was  a  look  of  love  ;  but,  oh  !  heaven,  was  it  a 
look  called  up  that  the  other  man  might  see  ?  He  took 
her  hand  in  his,  and  said  lightly  yet  tenderly,  "Let's 
see,  what  day  was  it?  the  sixth,  wasn't  it  the  sixth, 
Nell  ?  " 

A  flood  of  conflicting  thoughts  poured  through 
Elinor's  mind.  What  did  it  mean  ?  It  was  yesterday, 
she  was  about  to  say,  but  something  stopped  her,  some- 
thing in  Phil's  eye — in  the  touch  of  his  hand.  There 
was  something  warning,  almost  threatening,  in  his  eye. 
Stand  by  me  ;  mind  you  don't  contradict  me  ;  say  what 
I  say.  All  these  things  which  he  had  repeated  again 
and  again  were  said  once  more  in  the  look  he  gave  her. 
"  Yes,"  she  said  timidly,  with  a  hesitation  very  unlike 
8 


114  THE   MARRIAGE    OF  ELINOR. 

Elinor,  "it  was  the  sixth."  She  seemed  to  see  suddenly 
as  she  said  the  words  that  calendar  with  the  date  hang- 
ing in  the  hall :  the  big  6  seemed  to  hang  suspended  in 
the  air.  It  was  true,  though  she  could  not  tell  Low  it 
could  be  so. 

"  Oh,"  said  Staufield,  in  a  tone  which  betrayed  a  little 
surprise,  and  something  like  disappointment,  "  the 
sixth  ?  I  knew  you  had  left  Scotland,  but  we  did  not 
know  where  you  had  gone." 

"  That's  not  to  be  wondered  at,"  said  Phil,  with  a 
laugh,  "  for  I  should  have  gone  to  Ireland,  to  tell  the 
truth  ;  I  ought  to  have  been  there  now.  I'm  going  to- 
morrow, ain't  I,  Nell  ?  I  had  not  a  bit  of  business  to  be 
here.  Winding  up  affairs  in  the  bachelor  line,  don't 
you  know  ;  but  I  had  to  come  on  my  way  west  to  see 
this  young  lady  first.  It  plays  the  deuce  and  all  with 
one's  plans  when  there's  such  a  temptation  in  the  way.'' 

"  You  could  have  gone  from  Scotland  to  Ireland," 
said  Stanfield,  gravely,  "without  coming  to  town  at 
all." 

"  Very  true,  old  man.  You  speak  like  a  book.  But, 
as  you  perceive,  I  have  not  gone  to  Ireland  at  all ;  I  am 
here.  Depends  upon  your  motive,  I  suppose,  which 
way  you  go." 

"It  is  a  good  way  roundabout,"  said  the  other,  with- 
out relaxing  the  intent  look  on  his  face. 

"Well,"  said  Phil,  "that's  as  one  feels.  I  go  by 
Holyhead  wherever  I  may  be — even  if  I  had  uowhei-e 
else  to  go  to  on  the  way." 

"And  Mr.  Compton  got  here  on  the  sixth? — this  is 
the  eighth,"  said  the  stranger,  pointedly.  He  turned  <o 
Elinor,  and  it  seemed  to  the  girl  that  his  eyes,  though 
they  were  not  remarkable  eyes,  went  through  and 
through  her.  He  spoke  very  slowly,  with  a  curious 
meaning.  "But  it  was  on  the  sixth,  you  say,  that  he 
got  here  ?  " 

That  big  6  on  the  calendar  stood  oui  before  her  eyes  ; 
it  seemed  to  cover  all  the  man's  figure  that  stood  be- 
fore her.  Elinor's  heart  and  mind  went  through  the 
strangest  convulsion.  Was  it  false — was  it  true  ?  What 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  115 

was  she  saying  ?  What  did  it  all  mean  ?  She  repeated 
mechanically,  "  It  was  on  the  sixth,"  and  then  she  re- 
covered a  kind  of  desperate  courage,  and  throwing  off 
the  strange  spell  that  seemed  to  be  upon  hei-,  "Is  there 
any  reason,"  she  asked,  suddenly,  with  a  little  burst  of 
impatience,  looking  from  one  to  another,  "  why  it 
should  not  be  the  sixth,  that  you  repeat  it  so  ?  " 

"  I    beg    your    pardon,"    said  the   stranger,    visibly 
startled.    "  I  did  not  mean  to  imply —  only  thought — 
Pray,  Mr.  Compton,  tell  the  lady  I  had  no  intention  of 
offending.     I  never  supposed " 

Phil's  laugh,  loud  and  clear,  rang  through  the  still- 
ness of  the  afternoon.  "  He's  so  used  to  fibs,  he  thinks 
everybody's  in  a  tale,"  said  Phil,  "but  I  can  assure  you 
he  is  a  very  good  fellow,  and  a  great  friend  of  mine,  and 
he  means  no  harm,  Nell." 

Elinor  made  Mr.  Stanfield"  an  extremely  dignified 
bow.  "  I  ought  to  have  gone  away  at  once,  and  left  you 
to  talk  over  your  business,"  she  said,  turning  away,  and 
Phil  did  not  attempt  to  detain  her.  Then  the  natural 
rural  sense  of  hospitality  came  over  Elinor.  She  turned 
back  to  find  the  two  men  looking  after  her,  standing 
where  she  had  left  them.  "I  am  sure,"  she  said,  "  that 
mamma  would  wish  me  to  ask  the  gentleman  if  he 
would  stay  to  dinner — or  at  least  come  in  with  you, 
Phil,  to  tea." 

Mr.  Stanfield  took  off  his  hat  with  anxious  politeness, 
and  exclaimed  hastily  that  he  must  go  back  to  town  by 
the  next  train,  and  that  the  cab  from  the  station  was 
waiting  to  take  him.  And  then  she  left  them,  and 
walked  quietly  away.  She  was  almost  out  of  hearing 
before  they  resumed  their  conversation  ;  that  is,  she 
was  beyond  the  sound,  not  of  their  voices,  but  of  what 
they  said.  The  murmur  of  the  voices  was  still  audible 
when  she  got  to  her  favourite  seat  on  the  side  of  the 
copse  looking  down  the  combe.  It  was  a  very  retired 
and  silent  place,  not  visible  from  either  the  cottage  or 
the  garden.  And  there  Elinor  took  refuge  in  the  quiet 
and  hush  of  the  declining  day.  She  was  in  a  great 
tremor  of  agitation  and  excitement  as  she  sat  down 


116  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

upon  the  rustic  seat — so  great  a  tremor  that  she  had 
scarcely  been  able  to  walk  steadily  down  the  roughly- 
made  steps — a  tremor  which  had  grown  with  every  step 
she  took.  •  She  did  not  in  the  least  understand  the  trans- 
action in  which  she  had  been  engaged.  It  was  some- 
thing altogether  strange  to  her  experiences,  without  any 
pi-ecedent  in  her  life.  What  was  it  she  had  been  called 
upon  to  do  ?  What  had  she  said,  and  why  had  she  been 
made  to  say  it  ?  Her  heart  'beat  so  that  she  put  her  two 
hands  upon  it  crossed  over  her  breast  to  keep  it  down, 
lest  it  should  burst  away.  She  had  the  sensation  of 
having  been  brought  before  some  tribunal,  put  sud- 
denly to  the  last  shift,  made  to  say — what,  what  ?  She 
was  so  bewildered  that  she  could  not  tell.  Was  it  the 

truth,  said  with  the  intention  to  deceive — was  it ? 

She  could  not  tell.  There  was  that  great  numeral 
wavering  in  the  air,  stalking  along  with  her  like  a  ghost. 
6 — .  She  had  read  it  in  all  innocence,  they  had  all  read 
it,  and  nobody  had  said  it  was  wrong.  No  one  was  very 
careful 'about  the  date  in  the  cottage.  If  it  was  right,  if 
it  was  wrong,  Elinor  could  not  tell.  But  yet  somehow 
she  was  conscious  that  the  man  to  whom  she  had  spoken 
had  been  deceived.  And  Phil  !  and  Phil  !  what  had  he 
meant,  adjuring  her  to  stick  to  him,  to  stand  by  him, 
not  to  contradict  him  ?  Elinor's  mind  was  in  such  a 
wild  commotion  that  she  could  not  answer  these  in- 
quiries. She  could  not  feel  that  she  had  one  solid  step 
of  ground  to  place  herself  upon  in  the  whirlwind  which 
swept  her  about  and  about.  !Had  she — lied  ?  And  why 
had  he  asked  her  to  lie  ?  And  what,  oh,  what  did  it  all 
mean  ? 

One  thing  that  at  last  appeared  to  her  in  the  chaos 
which  seemed  like  something  solid  that  she  could  grasp 
at  was  that  Phil  had  never  changed  in  his  aspect.  The 
other  man  had  been  very  serious,  staring  at  her  as  if  to 
intimidate  her,  like  a  m;m  who  had  something  to  find 
out ;  but  Phil  had  been  as  careless,  ns  indifferent,  as  he 
appeared  always  to  be.  He  had  not  changed  his  ex- 
pression. It  is  true  there  was  that  look  in  which  there 
was  at  once  an  entreaty  and  a  command — but  only  she 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  117 

had  seen  that,  and  perhaps  it  was  merely  the  emotion, 
the  excitement,  the  strange  feeling  of  having  to  face  the 

world  for  him,  and  say what,  what  ?    Wan  it  simply. 

the  truth,  nothing  but  the  truth,  or  was  it Again 

Elinor's  mind  began  to  whirl.  It  was  the  truth  :  she 
could  see  now  that  big  6  on  the  calendar  distinct  as  the 
sunshine.  And  yet  it  was  only  yesterday — and  there 
was  8  this  morning.  Had  she  gone  through  an  in- 
tervening dream  for  a  whole  day  without  knowing  it ;  or 
had  she,  Elinor — she  who  would  not  have  done  it  to 
save  her  life — told — a  lie  for  Phil  ?  And  why  should  he 
want  her  to  tell  a  lie  ? 

Elinor  got  up  from  her  seat,  and  stood  uncertain, 
with  a  cold  dew  on  her  forehead,  and  her  hands  clasp- 
ing and  holding  eackother.  Should  she  go  back  to  them 
and  say  there  must  be  some  mistake — that  though  she 
had  said  the  truth  it  was  not  true,  that  thei'e  was  some 
mistake,  some  dreadful  mistake  !  There  was  no  longer 
any  sound  of  voices  where  she  was.  The  whole  incident 
seemed  to  have  died  out.  The  sudden  commotion  of 
Phil's  visit  and  everything  connected  with  it  had  passed 
away.  She  was  alone  in  the  afternoon,  in  the  hush  of 
nature,  looking  over  the  combe,  listening  to  the  rustle 
of  the  trees,  hearing  the  bees  drone  homeward.  Had 
Phil  ever  been  here  at  all  ?  Had  he  watched  the  distant 
road  winding  over  the  slopes  for  some  one  whom  he  had 
expected  to  come  after  him  all  the  time  ?  Had  he  ever 
told  her  to  stand  by  him  ?  to  say  what  he  said,  to  back 
him  up  ?  Had  there  ever  been  another  man  standing 
with  that  big  6  wavering  between  her  and  him  like  a 
ghost  ?  Had  all  that  been  at  all,  or  was  it  merely  a 
foolish  dream  ?  And  ought  she  to  go  back  now,  and 
find  the  man  before  he  disappeared,  and  tell  him  it  was 
all  true,  yet  somehow  a  dreadful,  dreadful  mistake  ? 

Elinor  sat  down  again  abruptly  on  her  seat,  and  put 
her  handkerchief  to  her  forehead  and  pushed  back  the 
damp  clusters  of  her  hair,  turning  her  face  to  the  wind 
to  get  a  little  refreshment  and  calm,  if  that  were  possi- 
ble. She  heard  in  the  sunny  distance  behind  her, 
where  the  garden  and  the  peaceful  house  lay  in  the 


118  THE   MARRIAGE    OF  ELINOR. 

Mgbt,  the  clang  of  the  gate,  a  sound  which  could  not  be 
mistaken.  The  man  then  had  gone — if  there  was  any- 
thing to  rectify  in  what  she  said  it  certainly  could  not 
be  rectified  now — he  was  gone.  The  certainty  came  to 
her  with  a  feeling  of  relief.  It  had  been  horrible  to 
think  of  standing  before  the  two  men  again  and  saying — 
what  could  she  have  said?  She  remembered  now  that 
it  was  not  her  assertion  alone,  but  that  it  all  Lung  to- 
gether, a  whole  structure  of  incidents,  which  would  be 
put  wrong  if  she  had  said  it  was  a  mistake — a  whole 
account  of  Phil's  time,  how  it  had  been  passed — which 
was  quite  true,  which  he  nud  told  them  on  his  arrival  ; 
now  he  had  been  going  to  Ireland,  and  had  stopped, 
longing  for  a  glimpse  of  her,  his  bride,  feeling  that  he 
must  have  her  by  him,  see  her  once  again  before  he 
came  for  her  to  fetch  her  away.  He  had  told  the  ladies 
at  the  cottage  the  very  same,  and  of  course  it  was  true. 
Had  he  not  come  straight  from  Scotland  with  his  big 
bundle  of  game,  the  grouse  and  partridges  which  had 
already  been  shared  with  all  the  friends  about '?  Was 
he  not  going  off  to  Ireland  to-morrow  to  fulfil  his  first 
Intention?  It  was  all  quite  right,  quite  true,  hanging 
perfectly  together — except  that  curious  falling  out  of  a 
day.  And  then  again  Elinor's  brain  swam  round  and 
round.  Had  he  been  two  days  at  the  cottage  instead  of 
one,  as  he  said  ?  Was  it  there  that  the  mistake  lay  ? 
Had  she  been  in  such  a  fool's  paradise  having  him 
there,  that  she  had  not  marked  the  passage  of  time — 
had  it  all  been  one  hour  of  happiness  flying  like  the 
wind?  A  blush,  partly  of  sweet  shame  to  think  that 
this  was  possible,  that  she  might  have  been  such  a 
happy  fool  as  to  ignore  the  divisions  of  night  and  day, 
and  parti}'  of  stimulating  hope  that  such  might  be  the 
case,  a  wild  snatch  at  justification  of  herself  and  him 
flushed  over  her  from  head  to  foot,  wrapping  her  in 
warmth  and  delight  ;  and  then  this  all  faded  away  again 
and  left  her  as  in  ashes — black  and  cold.  No  !  every- 
thing, she  saw,  now  depended  upon  what  she  had  been 
impelled  to  say  ;  the  whole  construction,  Phil's  account 
of  his  time,  his  story  of  his  doings — all  would  have  fallen 


THE   MARRIAGE    OF  ELINOR.  119 

to  pieces  had  she  said  otherwise.  Body  and  soul,  Elinor 
felt  herself  become  like  a  machine  full  of  clanging 
wheels  and  beating  pistons,  her  heart,  her  pulses,  her 
breath,  all  panting,  beating,  bursting.  What  did  it 
mean  ?  What  did  it  mean  ?  And  then  everything  stood 
still  in  a  horrible  suspense  and  pause. 

She  began  to  hear  voices  again  in  the  distance  and 
raised  her  head,  which  she  had  buried  in  her  hands — 
voices  that  sounded  so  calmly  in  the  westering  sun- 
shine, one  answering  another,  everything  softened  in 
the  golden  outdoor  light.  At  first  as  she  raised  her- 
self up  she  thought  with  horror  that  it  was  the  man, 
the  visitor  whom  she  had  supposed  to  be  gone,  return- 
ing with  Phil  to  give  her  the  opportunity  of  contradict- 
ing herself,  of  bringing  back  that  whirlwind  of  doubt 
and  possibility.  But  presently  her  excited  senses  per- 
ceived that  it  was  her  mother  who  was  walking  calmly 
through  the  garden  talking  with  Phil.  There  was  not 
a  tone  of  excitement  in  the  quiet  voices  that  came  grad- 
ually nearer  and  nearer,  till  she  could  hear  what  they 
were  saying.  It  was  Phil  who  was  speaking,  while  her 
mother  now  and  then  put  in  a  word.  Elinor  did  not 
wish  on  ordinary  occasions  for  too  many  private  talks 
between  her  mother  and  Phil.  They  rubbed  each 
other  the  wrong  way,  they  did  not  understand  each 
other,  words  seemed  to  mean  different  things  in  their 
comprehension  of  them.  She  knew  that  her  lover 
would  laugh  at  "  the  old  girl,"  which  was  a  phrase 
which  offended  Elinor  deeply,  and  Mrs.  Dennistoun 
would  become  stiffer  and  stiffer,  declaring  that  the 
very  language  of  the  younger  generation  had  become 
unintelligible  to  her.  But  to  hear  them  now  together 
was  a  kind  of  anodyne  to  Elinor,  it  stayed  and  calmed 
her.  The  cold  moisture  dried  from  her  forehead.  She 
smoothed  her  hair  instinctively  with  her  hand,  and 
put  herself  straight  in  mind  as  she  did  with  that  in- 
voluntary action  in  outward  appearance,  feeling  that 
no  sign  of  agitation,  no  trouble  of  demeanour  must 
meet  her  mother's  eye.  And  then  the  voices  came 
so  near  that  she  could  hear  what  they'  were  saying. 


120  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

They  were  coming  amicably  together  to  her  favourite 
retreat. 

"  It's  a  very  queer  thiug,"  said  Phil,  "  if  it  is  UK  they 
think,  that  somebody  went  there  the  night  before  last 
and  cleared  off  the  books.  Well,  not  all  the  books, 
some  that  are  supposed  to  contain  the  secret  transac- 
tions. Deucedly  cleverly  done  it  must  have  been,  if  it 
was  done  at  all,  for  nobody  saw  the  fellow,  or  fellows, 
if  there  were  more  than  one 

"Why  do  you  doubt?"  said  Mrs.  Dennisloun.  "Is 
there  any  way  of  accounting  for  it  otherwise  ?  " 

"  Oh,  a  very  good  way — that  Brown,  the  manager, 
simply  took  them  with  him,  as  he  would  naturally  do, 
if  he  wasn't  a  fool.  Why  should  he  go  off  and  leave 
papers  that  would  convict  him,  for  the  pleasure  of  in- 
volving other  fellows,  and  ruining  them  too?" 

"  Are  there  others,  then,  involved  with  him  ?  "  Oh, 
how  calm,  how  inconceivably  calm,  was  Mrs.  Dennis- 
toun's  voice  !  Had  she  been  asking  the  gardener  about 
the  slugs  that  eat  the  young  plants  it  would  have  been 
more  disturbed. 

"Well,  Stanfield  seemed  to  think  so.  He's  a  sort  of 
head  clerk,  a  fellow  enormously  trusted.  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  he  was  at  the  bottom  of  it  himself,  they're  so 
sure  of  him,"  said  Phil,  with  a  laugh.  "  He  says  there's 
a  kind  of  suspicion  of  two  or  three.  Clumsy  wretches 
they  must  be  if  they  let  themselves  be  found  out  like 
that.  But  I  don't  believe  it.  I  believe  Brown's  alone  in 
it,  and  that  it's  him  that's  taken  everything  away.  I 
believe  it's  far  the  safest  way  in  those  kind  of  dodges 
to  be  alone.  You  get  all  the  swag,  and  you're  in  no 
danger  of  being  rounded  on,  don't  you  know — till  you 
find  things  are  getting  too  hot,  and  you  cut  away." 

"I  don't  understand  the  words  you  use,  but  I  think 
I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun.  "  How 
dreadful  it  is  to  think  that  in  business,  where  honesty 
is  the  very  first  principle,  there  should  be  such  terrible 
plots  and  plans  as  those  !  " 

"  'Tis  awful,  isn't  it?  "said  Phil,  with  a  laugh  that 
seemed  to  ring  all  down  the  combe,  and  came  back  ii) 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF   ELINOR.  121 

echoes  from  the  opposite  slope,  where  in  the  distance 
the  cab  from  the  station  was  seen  hastening  back  tow- 
ards the  railway  in  a  cloud  of  dust.  The  laugh  was 
like  a  trumpet  of  triumph  flung  across  the  distance  at 
the  discomfited  enemy  thus  going  off  drooping  ill  the 
hurry  of  defeat.  He  added,  "  But  you  may  imagine, 
even  if  I  had  known  anything,  he  wouldn't  have  got 
much  out  of  me.  I  didn't  know  anything,  however, 
I'm  very  glad  to  say." 

"That  is  always  the  best,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun, 
with  a  certain  grave  didactic  tone.  "  And  here  is  Eli- 
nor, as  I  thought.  When  one  cannot  find  her  any- 
where else  she's  sure  to  be  found  here." 


CHAPTER  XH. 

"WELL,"  said  Compton,  placing  himself  beside  her, 
"  here  you  are,  Nell ;  kind  of  the  old  lady  to  bring  me, 
wasn't  it  ?  I  should  never  have  found  you  out  by  my- 
self." 

"  Has  he  gone,  Phil  ?  "  Elinor  raised  her  scared  face 
from  her  hands,  and  gave  him  a  piteous  look. 

"  Why,  Nell !  you  are  trembling  like  a  leaf.  Was  it 
frightened,  my  pretty  pet,  for  Staimy  ?  Stanny's  gone 
off  with  his  tail  between  his  legs.  Not  a  bit  of  starch 
left  in  him.  As  limp  a  lawyer  as  ever  you  saw." 

"  Was  he  a  lawyer  ?  "  she  said,  not  knowing  why  she 
said  it,  for  it  mattered  nothing  at  all  to  Elinor  what 
the  man  was. 

"  Not  exactly  ;  and  yet,  I  suppose,  something  of  the 
kind.  He  is  the  one  that  knows  about  law  points,  and 
such  things.  But  now  he's  as  quiet  as  a  lamb,  thanks 
to  you." 

"Phil,"  she  cried,  "what  did  you  make  me  say?  1 
don't  know  what  I  have  done.  I  have  done  something 
dreadful— deceived  the  man,  as  good  as  told  him  a 
lie." 


122  THE  VARRTAGE   OF  ELINOR. 

ou  told  him  the  truth,"'  said  Phil,  with  a  laugh, 
"  iu  the  most  judgmatical  way.  You  stuck  to  it  like  a 
--woman.  There's  nothing  like  a  woman  for  sticking 
to  a  text.  You  didn't  say  a  word  too  much.  And  ] 
say,  Nell,  that  little  defiant  bit  of  yours — 'Was  there 
uny  reason  why  it  shouldn't  be  the  sixth  ? '  was  grand. 
That  was  quite  magnificent,  my  pet.  I  never  though! 
vou  had  such  spirit  in  you." 

"Oh,  Phil,"  she  cried,  "why  did  you  make  me  say 
it  ?  What  was  it  I  said  ?  I  don't  know  ;  I  don't  un- 
derstand a  bit.  Whatever  it  was,  I  know  that  it  was 
v»Tong.  I  deceived  the  man." 

"  That's  not  so  great  a  sin,"  he  said.  "  I've  known 
worse  things  done.  Put  an  old  reynard  oif  the  scent 
to  save  his  prey.  I  don't  see  what's  wrong  in  that,  es- 
pecially as  the  innocent  chicken  to  be  saved  was  your 
own  poor  old  Phil." 

"Phil,  Phil,"  she  cried,  "what  could  that  man  havf 
done  to  you  ?y  What  had  put  you  in  his  power?  You 
have  made  me  lose  all  my  innocence.  I  have  got  hor- 
rible things  in  my  head.  What  could  he  have  done  to 
you  that  you  made  me  tell  a  lie  ?  " 

"What  lie  did  I  make  you  tell?  be  reasonable";  I 
did  arrive  on  the  sixth,  you  know  that  just  as  well  as  I 
do.  Don't  you  really  remember  the  calendar  in  the 
hall  ?  You  saw  it,  Nell,  as  well  as  I." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  she  cried,  putting  her  hands  up 
to  her  eyes,  "I  see  it  everywhere  staring  at  mo,  that 
Ireadful  G.  But  how  is  it  the  8th  now?  There  is 
something  in  it — something  I  don't  understand." 

He  laughed  loudly  and  long  :  one  of  those  boister- 
ous laughs  which  always  jarred  upon  Elinor.  "  I  don't 
in  the  least  mind  how  it  was,"  he  said.  ""It  was,  and 
that's  quite  enough  for  me  ;  and  let  it  be  for  you  too, 
Nell.  I  hope  you're  not  going  to  search  into  the  origin 
of  things  like  this  ;  we've  quite  enough  to  do  in  this 
world  to  take  things  as  they  come." 

"  Oh,  Phil !  if  at  least  I  could  understand — I  don't 
understand  :  or  if  I  had  not  been  made  to  say  what  is 
."•o  mysterious — what  must  be  false." 


THK  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  15? 3 

"Hush,  Nell;  how  could  it  be  false  when  you  ss.~*T 
with  your  own  eyes  it  was  true  ?  Now  let  us  be  don-? 
with  this,  my  darling.  The  incident  is  terminated,  as 
the  French  say.  I  came  here  as  fast  as  I  could  come  to 
have  a  good  laugh  with  you  over  it,  and  lo!  you're 
nearer  crying.  Why  should  you  have  Stanuy  on  your 
conscience,  Nell  ?  a  fellow  that  would  like  no  better 
than  to  hang  me  if  he  could  get  the  chance." 

"But  Phil,  Phil — oh,  tell  me,  what  could  this  man 
Lave  done  to  you  ?  Why  are  you  afraid  of  him  ?  Why, 
why  have  you  made  me  tell  him " 

"  Now,  Nell,  no  exaggerated  expression.  It  wa^  a 
fact  you  told  him,  according  to  the  best  of  evidence  ; 
and  what  he  could  have  done  to  me  is  just  this — he 
might  have  given  me  a  deal  of  trouble,  and  put  off  our 
marriage.  I  should  have  had  to  go  back  to  town,  and 
my  time  would  have  been  taken  up  with  finding  out 
about  those  books,  and  our  marriage  would  have  been 
put  off;  that's  what  he  could  have  done." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  cried  Elinor,  "  was  that  all  ?  " 

"All!"  he  said,  with  that  loud  laugh  again  ;  "you 
don't  mind  a  bit  how  you  hurt  a  fellow's  pride,  and  his 
affections,  and  all  that.  Do  you  mean  to  say,  you  hard- 
hearted little  coquette,  that  you  wouldn't  mind  ?  I 
don't  believe  you  would  mind  !  Here  am  I  counting 
the  hours,  and  you,  you  little  cold  puss,  you  aggravat- 
ing little " 

."  Oh,  Phil,  don't  talk  such  nonsense.  If  we  were  to 
be  separated,  for  a  week  or  a  month,  what  could  that 
matter,  in  comparison  with  saying  what  wasn't " 

"  Hush,"  he  said,  putting  his  hand  to  her  mouth. 
"  It's  not  nice  of  you  to  take  it  so  easily,  Nell.  I'd  tell 
as  many  what-d'ye-call-'ems  as  you  like,  rather  than  put 
it  off  an  hour.  Why,  feeling  apart  (and  I  don't  think 
you've  any  feeling,  you  little  piece  of  ice),  think  how 
inconvenient  it  would  have  been  ;  the  people  all  arriv- 
ing ;  the  breakfast  all  ready  ;  the  Rector  with  his  sur- 
plice on{  and  no  wedding  !  Fancy  the  Jew  with  all 
her  fallals,  on  the  old  lady's  hands,  and  your  cousin 
John—*" 


124  THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR. 

"  I  have  told  you  already,  Phil,  my  cousin  John  will 
not  be  there." 

"So  much  the  better,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh,  "I 
don't  want  him  to  be  there — shows  his  sense,  when  his 
nose  is  put  out  of  joint,  to  keep  out  of  the  way." 

"I  wish  you  would  understand,"  she  said,  with  a  lit- 
tle vexation,  "  that  John  is  not  put  out  of  joint,  as  you 
say  in  that  odious  way.  He  has  never  been  anything 
more  to  me,  nor  I  to  him,  than  we  are  now— like 
brother  and  sister." 

"  The  more  fool  he,"  said  Comptou,  "  to  have  the 
chance  of  a  nice  girl  like  you,  Nell,  and  not  to  go  in 
for  it.  But  I  don't  believe  a  bit  in  the  brother  and  sis- 
ter dodge." 

"  We  will  be  just  the  same  all  our  lives,"  cried  Elinor. 

"  Not  if  I  know  it,"  said  Phil.  "I'm  an  easy-going 
fellow  in  most  ways,  biit  you'll  find  I'm  an  old  Turk 
about  you,  my  little  cluck  of  a  Nell.  No  amateur 
brother  for  me.  If  you  can't  get  along  with  your  old 
Phil,  without  other  adorers — 

"  Phil !  as  if  I  should  ever  think  or  care  whether 
there  was  another  man  in  the  world  !  " 

"  Oh,  that's  going  too  far,"  he  said,  laughing.  "  I 
shan't  mind  a  little  flirtation.  You  may  have  a  man  or 
two  in  your  train  to  fetch  and  carry,  get  your  shawl  for 
you,  and  call  your  carnage,  and  so  forth  ;  but  no  seri- 
ous old  hand,  Nell — nothing  to  remind  you  that  there 
was  a  time  when  you  didn't  know  Phil  Compton."  His 
laugh  died  away  at  this  point,  and  for  a  moment  his 
face  assumed  that  grave  look  which  changed  its  charac- 
ter so  much.  "If  you  don't  come  to  repent  before 
then  that  you  ever  saw  that  fellow's  ugly  face,  Nell — 

"  Phil,  how  could  I  ever  repent  ?  Nobody  but  you 
should  dare  to  say  such  a  thing  to  me  !  " 

"  I  believe  that,"  he  said.  "If  that  old  John  of  yours 
tried  it  on —  Well,  my  pet,  he  is  your  old  John. 
You  can't  change  facts,  even  if  you  do  throw  the  poor 
fellow  over.  Now,  here's  a  new  chance  for  all  of  them, 
Nell.  I  shouldn't  wonder  a  bit  if  you  had  another  crop 
of  letters  bidding  you  look  before  you  leap.  That  Rec- 


THE  MARIU  .\<ri-:  or  KI.IXOK.  125 

tory  woman,  what's  her  name  ?  that  knows  my  family. 
You'll  see  she'll  have  some  new  story  before  we're  clear 
of  her.  They'll  never  stop  blackguarding  me,  I  know, 
until  you're  Phil  Compton  yourself,  my  beauty.  I  wish 
that  day  was  come.  I'm  afraid  to  go  off  again  and 
leave  you,  Nell.  They'll  be  putting  something  into 
your  head,  or  the  old  lady's.  Let's  get  ife  over  to-mor- 
row morning,  and  come  to  Ireland  with  me  ;  you've 
never  been  there." 

"  Phil,  what  nonsense  !  mamma  would  go  out  of  her 
senses." 

''  My  pet,  what  does  it  matter  ?  She'd  come  back  to 
them  again  as  soon  as  we  were  gone,  and  think  what  a 
botheration  spared  her  !  All  the  row  of  receiving  peo- 
ple, turning  the  house  upside  down.  And  here  I  am 
on  the  spot.  And  what  do  you  want  with  bridesmaids 
and  so  forth  ?  You've  got  all  your  things.  Suppose 
we  walk  out  to  church  to-morrow  before  breakfast, 
Nell " 

"  Phil,  you  are  mad,  I  think  ;  and  why  should  we  do 
such  a  thing,  scandalizing  everybody  ?  But  of  course 
you  don't  mean  it.  You  are  excited  after  seeing  that 
man." 

"  Excited  about  Stanny ! — not  such  a  fool ;  Stanny  is 

all  square,  thanks  to But  what  I  want  is  just  to 

take  you  up  in  my  arms,  like  this,  and  run  off  with  you, 
Nell.  Why  we  should  call  the  whole  world  to  watch  us 
while  we  take  that  swing  off — into  space." 

"Phil!" 

"  So  it  is,  for  you,  Nell.  You  don't  know  a  bit  what's 
going  to  happen.  You  don't  know  where  I'm  going  to 
take  you,  and  what  I'm  going  to  do  with  you,  you  little 
innocent  lamb  in  the  wolf's  grip.  I  want  to  eat  you  up, 
straight  off.  I  shall  be  afraid  up  to  the  last  moment 
that  you'll  escape  me,  Nell." 

"  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  so  fond  of  innocence," 
said  Elinor,  half  afraid  of  her  lover's  vehemence,  and 
trying  to  dispel  his  gravity  with  a  laugh.  "  You  used 
to  say  you  did  not  believe  in  the  iny<:/»i<'.'' 

"I  believe  in  you,"  he  said,  with  an  almost  fierce 


126  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

pressure  of  her  arm  ;  then,  after  a  pause,  "  No,  I  don** 
believe  in  women  at  all,  Nell,  only  you.  They're  rather 
worse  than  men,  which  is  saying  a  good  deal.  What 
would  the  Jew  care  if  we  were  all  drawn  and  quartered, 
so  long  as  she  had  all  her  paraphernalia  about  her  and 
got  everything  she  wanted  ?  For  right-down  selfish- 
ness commend  me  to  a  woman.  A  fellow  may  have 
gleams  of  something  better  about  him,  like  me,  warning 
3-011  against  myself." 

"  It  is  a  droll  way  of  warning  me  against  yourself  to 
want  to  carry  me  off  to-morrow." 

"  It's  all  the  same  thing,"  he  said.  "  I've  warned 
you  that  those  old  hags  are  right,  and  I'm  not  good 
enough  for  you,  not  fit  to  come  near  you,  Nell.  But  if 
the  sacrifice  is  to  be,  let's  get  it  over  at  once,  don't  let 
us  stand  and  think  of  it.  I'm  capable  of  jilting  you," 
he  said,  "leaving  you  plants  la,  all  out  of  remorse  of 
conscience  ;  or  else  just  catching  you  up  in  my  arms, 
like  this,  and  carrying  you  off,  never  to  be  seen  more." 

''  You  are  very  alarming,"  said  Elinor.  "  I  don't 
know  what  you  mean.  You  can  be  off  with  your  bar- 
gum  if  you  please,  Phil ;  but  you  had  better  make  up 
your  mind  at  once,  so  that  mamma  may  countermand  her 
invitations,  and  stop  Gunter  from  sending  the  cake." 

(It  was  Gunter  who  was  the  man  in  those  days.  I 
believe  people  go  to  Buszard  now.) 

He  gave  her  again  a  vehement  hug,  and  burst  into  a 

laugh.      "I  might  jilt  you,  Nell ;  such  a  thing  is  on  the 

.     I  might  leave  you  in   the  lurch  at  the  church 

:  but  when  you  talk  of  countermanding  the  cake, 

t  face  that  situation.     Society  would  naturally  be 

up  in  arms  about  that.     So  you  must  take  your  chance 

like  the  other  innocents.     I'll  eat  you  up  as  gently  as  1 

u id  hide  my  tusks  as  long  as  it's  possible.     C'ome 

on,  Nell,  don't  let  us  sit  here  and  get  the  mopes,  and 

think  of  our  consciences.     Conn  •  if  that  show 

is  in  the  village.     Life's  better  than  thinking,  old  girl." 

'•  Do  you  call  the  show  in  the  village,  life '? "  she 
h:ilf  pleased  to  rouse  him,  half  sorry  to  be  thus 
Carried  away. 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  1^7 

"  Every  show  is  life,"  said  Phil,  "  and  everywhere 
that  people  meet  is  better  than  anywhere  where  you're 
alone.  Mind  you  take  in  that  axiom,  Nell.  It's  our 
rule  of  life,  you  know,  among  the  set  you're  marrying 
into.  That's  how  the  Jew  gets  on.  That's  how  we  all 
get  on.  By  this  time  next  year  you'll  be  well  inured 
into  it  like  all  the  rest.  That's  what  your  Rector  never 
taught  you,  I'll  be  bound  ;  but  you'll  see  the  old  fellow 
practises  it  whenever  he  has  a  chance.  Why,  there 
they  begin,  tootle-te-too.  Come  on,  Nell,  and  don't  let 
us  lose  the  fun." 

He  drew  her  along  hastily,  hurrying  while  the  flute 
and  the  drum  began  to  perform  their  parts.  Sound 
spreads  far  in  that  tranquil  country,  where  no  railway 
was  visible,  and  where  the  winds  for  the  moment  were 
still.  It  was  Pan's  pipes  that  were  being  played,  at- 
tracting a  few  stragglers  from  the  scattered  house.-. 
Within  a  hundred  yards  from  the  church,  at  the  corner 
of  four  roads,  stood  the  Bull's  Head,  with  a  cottage  or 
two  linked  on  to  its  long  straggling  front.  And  this 
was  all  that  did  duty  for  a  village  at  Windyhill.  The 
Rectory  stood  back  in  its  own  copse,  surrounded  by  r>, 
growth  of  young  birches  and  oak  near  the  church. 
The  Hills  dwelt  intermediate  between  the  Bull's  Head 
and  the  ecclesiastical  establishment.  The  school  and 
schoolmaster's  house  were  behind  the  Bull.  The  show 
was  surrounded  by  the  children  of  the  place,  who 
looked  on  silent  with  ecstasy,  while  a  burly  showman 
piped  his  pipes  and  beat  his  drum.  A  couple  of  ostlers, 
with  their  shirt-sleeves  rolled  up  to  their  shoulders,  and 
one  of  them  with  a  pail  in  his  hand,  stood  arrested  in 
their  work.  And  in  the  front  of  the  spectators  was 
Alick  Hudson,  a  sleepy-looking  youth  of  twenty,  who 
started  and  took  his  hands  out  of  his  pockets  at  sight  of 
Elinor.  Mr.  Hudson  himself  came  walking  briskly 
round  the  corner,  swinging  his  cane  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  was  afraid  of  being  too  late. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  ?  "  said  Coinpton,  pressing  Elinor's 
arm. 

As   the  tootle-te-too  went  on,  other   spectators   ap- 


128  THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELIXOR. 

peared — the  two  Miss  Hills,  one  putting  on  her  hat,  the 
other  hastily  buttoning  her  jacket  as  they  hurried  up. 
"  Oh,  you  'here,  Elinor !  What  fun  !  We  all  run 
as  if  we  were  six  years  old.  I'm  going  to  engage  the 
man  to  come  round  and  do  it  opposite  Rosebank  to 
amuse  mother.  She  likes  it  as  much  as  any  of  us, 
though  she  doesn't  see  very  well,  poor  dear,  nor  hear 
either.  But  we  must  always  consider  that  the  old  have 
not  many  amusements,"  said  the  elder  Miss  Hill. 

"Though  mother  amuses  herself  wonderfully  with 
her  knitting,"  said  Miss  Sarah.  "There's  a  sofa-cover 
on  the  stocks  for  you,  Elinor." 

It  appeared  to  be  only  at  this  moment  that  the 
sisters  became  aware  of  the  presence  of  "  the  gentle- 
man" by  whom  Elinor  stood.  They  had  been  too 
busy  with  their  uncompleted  toilettes  to  observe  him 
at  first.  But  now  that  Miss  Hill's  hat  was  settled 
to  her  satisfaction,  and  the  blue  veil  tied  over  her  face 
as  she  liked  it  to  be,  and  Miss  Sarah  had  at  last  suc- 
ceeded, after  two  false  starts,  in  buttoning  her  jacket 
straight,  their  attention  was  released  for  other  details. 
They  both  gave  a  glance  over  Elinor  at  the  tall  figure 
on  the  other  side,  and  then  looked  at  each  other  with  a 
mutual  little  "  Oh !  "  and  nod  of  recognition.  Then 
Miss  Hill  took  the  initiative  as  became  her  dignity. 
"  I  hope  you  are  going  to  introduce  us  to  your  com- 
panion, Elinor,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Compton,  how  do 
you  do  ?  We  are  delighted  to  make  your  acquaintance, 
I  am  sure.  It  is  charming  to  have  an  opportunity  of 
seeing  a  person  of  so  much  importance  to  us  all,  our 
dear  Elinor's  intended.  I  hope  you  know  what  a  prize 
you  are  getting.  You  might  have  sought  the  whole 
country  over  and  you  wouldn't  have  found  a  girl  like 
her.  I  don't  know  how  we  shall  endure  your  name 
when  you  carry  her  away." 

"  Except,  indeed,"  said  Miss  Sarah,  "  that  it  will  be 
Elinor's  name  too." 

"  So  here  we  all  are  again,"  said  the  Rector,  gazing 
down  tranquilly  upon  his  flock,  "  not  able  to  resist  a 
little  histrionic  exhibition — and  Mr.  Compton  too, 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  129 

fresh  from  the  great  world.  I  daresay  our  good  friend 
Mrs.  Basset  would  hand  us  out  some  chairs.  No 
Englishman  can  resist  Punch.  Aliek,  my  boy,  yoa 
ought  to  be  at  your  work.  It  will  not  do  to  neglect 
your  lessons  when  you  are  so  near  your  exam." 

"No  Englishman,  father,  can  resist  Punch,"  said  the 
lad  :  at  which  the  two  ostlers  and  the  landlord  of 
the  Bull's  Head,  who  was  standing  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  in  his  own  doorway,  laughed  loud. 

"Had  the  old  fellow  there,"  said  Compton,  which 
was  the  first  observation  he  had  made.  The  ladies 
looked  at  him  with  some  horror,  and  Alick  a  little 
flustered,  half  pleased,  half  horrified,  by  this  sup- 
port, while  the  Rector  laughed,  but  stifflv  "u  bout  de* 
.  He  was  not  accustomed  to  be  called  an  Old 
fellow  in  his  own  parish. 

"  The  old  fellows,  as  you  elegantly  say,  Mr.  Comp- 
ton, have  always  the  worst  of  it  in  a  popular  assembly. 
Elinor,  here  is  a  chair  for  you.  my  love.  Another  one 
-,  Mrs.  Basset,  for  I  see  Miss  Dale  coming  up  this 
way." 

';  By  Jove,"  said  Compton,  under  his  breath.  "  Eli- 
nor, here's  the  one  that  knows  society.  I  hope  she  isn't 
such  an  old  guy  as  the  rest." 

"Oh.  Phil,  be  good!"  said  Elinor,  "or  let  us  go 
away,  which  would  be  the  best." 

•:  Not  a  bit,"  he  suid.  '•  Let's  see  the  show.  I  say, 
old  man,  where  are  you  from  ln- 

"  Down  from  Guildford  ways,  guv'uor — awful  bad 
trade  ;  not  taken  a  bob,  s'  help  me,  not  for  three  days, 
and  bed  and  board  to  get  off  o'  that,  me  and  my  mate." 

"Well,  here  is  a  nice  little  party  for  you,  my  man," 
said  the  R'jt'tor,  '•  it  is  not  often  you  have  such  an 
audience — nor  would  I  encourage  it,  indeed,  if  it  were 
not  so  purely  English  an  exhibition." 

"  Master,"  said  the  showman,  "  worst  of  it  is.  nobody 

•  ill  we've  done  the  show,  and  then  they  goes  away, 

and  they've  got  it,  don't  you  see,  and  we  can't  have 

it  back  once  it's  in  their  insides.  and  there  ain't  nothink 

then,  neither  for  my  mate  nor  me." 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

"Here's  for  you,  old  fellow,"  said  Phil.  He  took  a 
sovereign  from  his  waistcoat  pocket  and  chucked  it  with 
his  thumbnail  into  the  man's  hand,  who  looked  at  it 
with  astonished  delight,  tossed  it  into  the  air  with  a 
grin,  a  "  thank'ee,  gentleman ! "  and  a  call  to  his 
"  mate  "  who  immediately  began  the  ever-exciting,  ever- 
amusing  drama.  The  thrill  of  sensation  which  ran 
through  the  little  assembly  at  this  incident  was  wonder- 
ful. The  children  all  turned  from  Punch  to  regard 
with  large  open  eyes  and  mouths  the  gentleman  who 
had  given  a  gold  sovereign  to  the  showman.  Alick 
Hudson  looked  at  him  with  a  grin  of  pleasure,  a  blush 
of  envy  on  his  face  ;  the  Rector,  with  an  expression  o£ 
horror,  slightly  shaking  his  head  ;  the  Miss  Hills  with 
admiration  yet  dismay.  "  Goodness,  Sarah,  they'll 
never  come  now  and  do  it  for  a  shilling  to  amuse 
mother  !  "  the  elder  of  the  sisters  said. 

Miss  Dale  came  hurrying  up  while  still  the  sensation 
lasted.  "  Here  is  a  chair  for  you,  Mary,"  said  her 
brother-iu -law,  "and  the  play  is  just  going  to  begin. 
I  can't  help  shaking  my  head  when  I  think  of  it,  but 
still  you  must  hear  what  has  just  happened.  Mr. 
Compton,  let  me  present  you  to  my  sister-in-law,  Miss 
Dale.  Mr.  Compton  has  made  the  widow's  heart,  nay, 
not  the  widow's,  but  the  showman's  heart  to  sing.  He 
has  presented  our  friend  with  a " 

"  Mind  you,"  said  Phil,  from  behind  Elinor's  shoul- 
ders, "I've  paid  the  fellow  only  for  two." 

At  which  the  showman  turned  and  winked  at  the 
Rector.  To  think  that  such  a  piece  or  audacity  could 
be  !  A  dingy  fellow  in  a  velveteen  coat,  with  a  spotted 
handkerchief  round  his  neck,  and  a  battered  hat  on  his 
unkempt  locks,  with  Pan's  pipes  at  his  mouth  and  a 
drum  tied  round  his  waist — winked  at  the  Rector  ! 
Mr.  Hudson  fell  back  a  step,  and  his  very  lips  were 
livid  with  the  indignity.  He  had  to  support  himself  on 
the  back  of  the  chair  he  had  just  given  to  Miss  Dale. 

"I  think  we  are  all  forgetting  our  different  positions 
in  this  world,"  lie  said. 

"I  ain't,"  said  the  showman,  "not  taking  no  advan- 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  131 

tage  through  the  gentleman's  noble  ways.  He's  a  lord, 
he  is,  I  dou't  make  no  doubt.  And  we're  paid.  Take 
the  good  of  it,  Guv'nor,  and  welcome ;  all  them  as  is 
here  is  welcome.  My  mate  and  I  are  too  well  paid.  A 
gentleman  like  that  good  gentleman,  as  is  sweet  upon 
a  pretty  young  lady,  and  an  open  'eart  a-cause  of  her, 
I  just  wish  we  could  find  one  at  every  station  ;  don't 
you,  Joe?" 

Joe  assented,  in  the  person  of  Mr.  Punch,  with  a 
horrible  squeak  from  within  the  tent. 

The  sensations  of  Elinor  during  this  episode  were 
peculiar  and  full  of  mingled  emotion.  It  is  impossible 
to  deny  that  she  was  proud  of  the  effect  produced  by 
her  lover.  The  sovereign  chucked  into  the  showman's 
hand  was  a  cheap  way  of  purchasing  a  little  success, 
and  yet  it  dazzled  Elinor,  and  made  her  eyelids  droop 
and  her  cheek  light  up  with  the  glow  of  pleasure. 
Amid  all  the  people  who  would  search  for  pennies,  or 
perhaps  painfully  and  not  without  reluctance  produce  a 
sixpence  to  reward  the  humble  artists,  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  careless  familiarity  and  indifference  which 
tossed  a  gold  coin  at  them  which  was  calculated  to 
charm  the  youthful  observer.  Elinor  felt  the  same 
mixture  of  pleasure  and  envy  which  had  moved  Alick 
Hudson  ;  yet  it  was  not  envy,  for  was  not  he  her  own 
who  did  this  thing  which  she  would  have  liked  to  have 
done  herself,  overwhelming  the  poor  tramps  with  de- 
light? Elinor  knew,  as  Alick  also  did,  that  it  would 
never  have  occurred  to  her  to  do  it.  She  would  have 
been  glad  to  be  kind  to  the  poor  men,  to  give  them  a 
good  meal,  to  speak  to  Basset  at  the  Bull's  Head  in 
their  favour  that  they  might  be  taken  in  for  the  night 
and  made  comfortable,  but  to  open  her  purse  and  take 
a  real  sovereign  from  it,  a  whole  potential  pound,  would 
not  have  come  into  her  head.  Had  such  a  thing  been 
done,  for  instance,  by  the  united  subscriptions  of  the 
party,  in  case  of  some  peculiarly  touching  situation, 
the  illness  of  a  wife,  the  loss  of  a  child,  it  would  have 
been  done  solemnly,  the  Rector  calling  the  men  up. 
making  a  little  speech  to  them,  telling  them  how  all 


1,32  THK   MM!  11 1 MH-:   OP    i:i.lXOR. 

the  ladies  and  gentlemen  had  united  to  make  up 
this,  and  how  they  must  be  careful  not  to  spend  it 
unworthily.  Elinor  thought  she  could  see  the  little 
scene,  and  the  Rector  improving  the  occasion.  Where- 
as Phil  spun  the  money  through  the  air  into  the  man's 
ready  hand  as  if  it  had  been  a  joke,  a  trick  of  agility. 
Elinor  saw  that  everybody  was  much  impressed  with 
the  incident,  and  her  heart  went  forth  upon  a  flood  of 
satisfaction  and  content.  And  it  was  no  premeditated 
triumph.  It  was  so  noble,  so  accidental,  so  entirely  out 
of  his  good  heart  ! 

When  he  hurried  her  home  at  the  end  of  the  perform- 
ance, that  Mrs.  Dennistoun  might  not  be  kept  waiting, 
the  previous  events  of  the  afternoon,  and  all  that 
happened  in  the  copse  and  garden,  had  faded  out  of 
Elinor's  mind.  She  forgot  Stanfield  and  the  6th  and 
everything  about  it.  Her  embarrassment  and  trouble 
were  gone.  She  went  in  ga^yly  and  told  her  mother  all 
about  this  wonderful  incident.  "The  1  feet  or  was  try- 
ing for  a  sixpence.  But,  mamma,  Phil  must  not  be 
so  ready  with  his  sovereigns,  must  he  ?  We  shall  have 
nothing  to  live  upon  if  he  goes  chucking  sovereigns  at 
every  Punch  and  Judy  he  may  meet." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

PHIL  CoMP-roN-  went  off  next  morning  by  an  early 
train,  having  in  the  meanwhile  improved  the  impression 
of  him  left  upon  the  family  in  general,  and  specially 
upon  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  to  whom  ho  had  talked  with  en- 
thusiasm about  Elinor,  expressed  indeed  in  terms  un- 
usual to  her  ears,  but  perhaps  only  more  piquant  on 
that  account,  which  greatly  conciliated  the  mother. 
"  Don't  you  think,"  said  the  Honourable  Phil,  "  because 
I  speak  a  little  free  and  am  not  one  for  tall  talk,  that 
I  don't  know  what  she  is.  I've  got  no  poetry  in  me, 
but  for  the  freest  goer  and  the  highest,  spirit,  without  a 


THE  XARRIAi;  LINOR.  133 

"bit  of  vice  in  her,  there  never  was  one  like  Nell.     The 

girls  of  my  set,  they're  not  worthy  to  tie  her  shoes — 

thing  I  most  regret  is  taking  her  among  a  lot  that  are 

not  half  good  enough  for  her.     But  you  can't  help  your 

relations,  can  you  ?  and  you  have  to  stick  to  them  for 

dozens  of  reasons.     There's  the  Jew,  when  you  know 

-he's  not  such  a  bad  sort — not  generous,  as  yon 

see  from  what  she's  given  Xell,  the  old  screw  :  but 

yet  in  her  own  way  she  stands  by  a  fellow,  and  we'll 

need  it,  not  having  just  the  Bank  of  England  behind 

tier  husband,  old  Prestwich,  isn't  bad  for  a  man 

that  has  made  his  own  money,  and  they've  got  a  jolly 

house,  always  something  going  on." 

"  But  I  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  "that  as  soon 
as  these  autumn  visits  are  over  you  will  have  a  house 
of  your  own." 

"Oh,  that !  "  said  Compton,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand, 
which  left  it  in  some  doubt  whether  he  was  simply 
throwing  off  the  suggestion,  or  treating  it  as  a  foregone 
conclusion  of  which  there  could  be  no  doubt.  "  Xell," 
he  went  on.  "gets  on  with  the  Jew  like  a  house  on  fire 
— you  see  they  don't  clash.  Xell  ain't  one  of  the  man- 
nish sort,  and  she  doesn't  flirt — at  least  not  as  far  as 
I've  seeu " 

"  I  should  hope  not,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistouu. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  one  of  your  curmudgeons.  Where's 
the  harm  ?  But  she  don't,  and  there's  an  end  of  it. 
She  keeps  herself  to  herself,  and  lets  the  Jew  go  ahead, 
and  think  she's  the  attraction.  And  shell  please  the  old 
lord  down  to  the  ground.  For  he's  an  old-fashioned 
old  coon,  and  likes  what  he  calls  t^nue,  don't  you  know  : 
but  the  end  is,  there  ain't  one  of  them  that  can  hold  a 
candle  to  Xell.  And  I  should  not  wonder  a  bit  if  she 
made  a  change  in  the  lot  of  us.  Conversion  of  a  family 
by  the  influence  of  a  pious  wife,  don't  you  know.  Sort 
of  thing  that  they  make  tracts  out  of.  Capital  thing,  it 
would  be,"  said  Phil,  philosophically,  "  for  some  of  us 
have  been  going  B,  pace " 

"  Mr.  Comptou,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  solemnly,  "I 
don't  understand  very  well  what  you  mean  by  these 


134  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

phrases.  They  may  be  much  more  innocent  than  they 
seem  to  a  country  lady's  ears.  But  I  implore  you  to 
keep  my  Elinor  clear  of  anything  that  you  call  going 
the  pace.  It  must  mean  something  very  unlike  her, 
whatever  it  means.  She  has  been  used  to  a  very  quiet, 
orderly  life.  Don't  hurry  her  off  iuto  a  whirl  of  society, 
or  among  noisy  gay  people.  Indeed  I  can  assure  you 
that  the  more  you  have  her  to  herself  the  more  you  will 
be  happy  in  her.  She  is  the  brightest  companion,  the 
most  entertaining Oh,  Mr.  Compton  !  " 

"  I  think  it's  about  time,  now,  mater,  to  call  me 
Phil." 

She  smiled,  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  held  out 
her  hand.  "Philip,  then,"  she  said,  "to  make  a  little 
difference.  Now  remember  what  I  say.  It  is  only  in 
the  sacredness  of  her  home  that  you  will  know  what  is 
in  Elinor.  One  is  never  dull  with  her.  She  has  her 
own  opinions — her  bright  way  of  looking  at  things — as 
you  know.  It  is,  perhaps,  a  strange  thing  for  a  mother 
to  say,  but  she  will  amuse  you,  Philip  ;  she  is  s;ich 
company.  You  will  never  be  dull  with  Elinor  :  she  has 
so  much  in  her,  which  will  come  out  in  society,  it  is 
true,  but  never  so  brightly  as  between  you  two  alone." 

This  did  not  seem  to  have  quite  the  effect  upon  the 
almost-bridegroom  which  the  mother  intended.  "  Per- 
haps "  (she  said  to  herself),  "he  was  a  little  affected  by 
the  Ihought  "  (which  she  kept  so  completely  out  of  the 
conversation)  "  of  the  loss  she  herself  was  about  to  un- 
dergo." At  all  events,  his  face  was  not  so  bright  as  in 
the  vision  of  that  sweet  prospect  held  before  him  it 
ought  to  have  been. 

"The  fact  is."  he  said.  "  she  knows  a  great  deal  more 
than  I  do,  or  ever  will.  It's  she  that  will  be  the  one  to 
look  blue  when  she  finds  herself  alone  with  a  fool  of  a 
fellow  that  doesn't  know  a  book  from  a  brick.  That's 
the  thing  I'm  most  afraid—  As  for  society,  she  can 
have  her  pick  of  that,"  he  added,  brightening'  up,  "  I'll 
not  bind  her  down." 

"You  may  be  sure  she'll  prefer  you  to  all  the  world." 

11-    .liPiv-ed  his  shoulders  a  little. 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  135 

"They  say  it's  always  a  leap  in  the  dark,"  he  said, 
"  for  how's  she  to  know  the  sort  of  fellow  I  am  with 
what  she  sees  of  me  here  ?  But  I  promise  you  I'll  do 
my  best  to  take  her  in,  and  keep  her  in  that  delusion, 
for  her  good — making  believe  to  be  all  that's  virtuous  : 
and  perhaps  not  a  bad  way — some  of  it  may  stick. 
Come,  mater,  don't  look  so  horrified.  I'm  not  of  the 
Cousin  John  sort,  but  there  may  be  something  decent 
in  me  after  all." 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  "  that  you  will 
try  to  make  her  happy,  Philip."  She  was  crying  by 
this  time,  which  was  a  thing  very  odious  to  Phil.  He 
took  her  by  both  hands  and  gave  her  a  hearty  kiss, 
which  was  a  thing  for  which  she  was  not  at  all  pre- 
pared. 

"  I'll  do  by  her "  he  said,  with  a  murmur  which 

sounded  like  an  oath,  "as  well  as  I  know  how." 

Perhaps  this  was  not  the  very  greatest  comfort  to  her 
mother,  but  it  was  the  best  she  was  at  all  likely  to  get 
from  a  man  so  entirely  different  in  all  ways  from  her 
own  species.  She  had  her  cry  out  quietly  while  he 
went  off  to  get  his  bag.  The  pony  carriage  was  at  the 
door  in  which  Elinor  was  to  drive  him  to  the  station, 
and  a  minute  after  Mrs.  Dennistoun  heard  his  voice  in 
the  hall  calling  to  his  Nell,  his  old  girl,  in  terms  which 
went  against  all  the  mother's  prejudices  of  soft  and 
reverent  speech.  To  have  her  carefully-trained  child, 
her  Elinor,  whom  every  one  had  praised  and  honoured, 
her  maiden-princess  so  high  apart  from  all  such  fa- 
miliarity, addressed  so,  gave  the  old-fashioned  lady  a 
pang.  It  meant  nothing  but  love  and  kindness,  she 
said  to  herself.  He  reverenced  Elinor  as  much  as  it 
was  in  such  a  man  to  do.  He  meant  with  all  his  heart 
to  do  by  her  as  well  as  he  knew  how.  It  was  as  fantas- 
tic to  object  to  his  natural  language  as  it  would  be  to 
object  to  a  Frenchman  speaking  French.  That  was  his 

tongue,  the  only  utterance  he  knew She  dried  her 

eyes  and  went  out  to  the  door  to  see  them  start.  The 
sun  was  blazing  over  all  the  brilliant  autumnal  colours 
of  the  garden,  though  it  was  still  full  and  brilliant  sum- 


136  THE  JfAliltfAdK   OF  ELINOR. 

mer  in  the  September  morning,  and  only  the  asters  and 
dahlias  replacing  the  roses  betrayed  the  turn  of  the 
season.  And  nothing  could  be  more  bright  than  the 
face  of  Elinor  as  she  sat  in  the  homely  little  carriage, 
with  the  reins  gathered  up  in  her  hand.  He  was  going 
away,  indeed,  but  in  a  week  he  was  coining  back. 
Philip,  as  Mrs.  Dennistonn  now  called  him  with  dignity, 
yet  a  little  beginning  of  affection,  packed  up  his  long 
limbs  us  well  as  he  could  in  the  small  space.  "  I  be- 
lieve she'll  spill  us  on  the  road,"  he  said,  "'  or  bring 
back  the  shandrydan  with  a  hole  in  it." 

"There  is  too  much  of  you,  Phil,"  said  Elinor,  giving 
the  staid  pony  a  quiet  touch. 

"  I  should  like  some  of  those  fellows  to  see  me,"  he 
said,  "joggled  off  to  market  like  a  basket  of  eggs  ;  but 
don't  smash  me,  Nell,  on  the  way." 

Mrs.  Dennistoun  stood  on  the  steps  looking  after 
them,  or  rather,  listening  after  them,  for  they  had  soon 
turned  the  corner  of  the  house  and  were  gone.  She 
heard  them  jogging  over  the  stony  road,  and  the  sound 
of  their  voices  in  the  air  for  a  long  time  after  they  were 
out  of  sight — the  air  was  so  still  and  s.o  close,  nothing 
in  it  to  break  the  sound.  The  atmosphere  was  all  sun- 
shine, not  a  cloud  upon  the  sky,  scarcely  n  breath  stir- 
ring over  those  hill-tops,  which  had  almost  the  ef!< 
a  mountainous  landscape,  being  the  highest  ground  in 
ah1  the  visible  space.  Along  the  other  side  of  the 
combe,  where  the  road  became  visible,  there  were 
gleams  of  heather  brilliant  iinder  the  dark  foliage  of  the 
iirs.  She  sat,  down  in  the  porch  and  waited  to  see  them 
•••rrowful  background  to  her  thoughts, 
but  for  the  moment  she  was  not  actually  sad,  it'  perhaps 
a  little  forlorn.  They  had  gone  away  leaving  her  alone, 
but  yet  in  an  hour  or  two  Elinor  was  coming  back. 
Time  enough  to  think  of  the.  final  parting.  Next  week 
Elinor  would  go  and  would  not  return.  Mrs.  Dennis- 
tonn held  on  by  both  hands  to  to-day  and  would  not 
think  of  that  future,  near  as  it  was.  She  waited  in  a 
hush  of  feeling,  so  near  to  great  commotions  of  the 
and  mind,  but  holding  them  at  a  distance  in  a 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  EIJNOR.  137 

suspense  of  all  thought,  till  the  shandrydan  appeared  in 
the  opening  of  the  road.  They  were  thinking  of  her, 
for  she  saw  a  gleam  of  white,  the  waving  of  a  handker- 
chief, as  the  little  carriage  trundled  along  the  road,  and 
for  a  moment  the  tears  again  blinded  her  eves.  But 
Mrs.  Dennistoun  was  very  reasonable.  She  got  up  from 
the  cottage  porch  after  the  pony  carriage  had  passed  in 
the  distance,  with  that  determination  to  make  the  best 
of  it,  which  is  the  inspiration  of  so  many  women's  lives. 

And  what  a  drive  the  others  had  through  the  sunshine 
— or  at  least  Elinor  !  You  can  never  tell  by  what  shad- 
ows a  man's  thoughts  may  be  haunted,  who  is  a  man  of 
the  world,  and  has  had  many  other  things  to  occupy 
him  besides  this  vision  of  love.  But  the  girl  had  no 
shadows.  The  parting  which  was  before  her  was  not 
near  enough  to  harm  as  yet,  and  she  was  still  able  to 
think,  in  her  ignorance  of  the  world,  that  even  parting 
was  much  more  in  appearance  than  in  reality,  and  that 
she  would  always  be  running  home,  always  going  upon 
long  visits  brightening  everything,  instead  of  saddening. 
But  even  had  she  been  going  to  the  end  of  the  world 
witli  her  husband  next  week,  Elinor  would  still  have 
been  happy  to-day.  The  sunshine  itself  was  enough  to 
go  to  any  one's  head,  and  the  pony  stepped  out  so  that 
Phil  had  the  grace  to  be  ashamed  of  his  reflections  upon 
"  the  old  girl."  They  got  to  the  station  too  early  for 
the  train,  and  had  half  an  hour's  stroll  together,  with  all 
the  railway  porters  looking  on  admiring.  They  all  knew 
Miss  Dennistoun  from  her  childhood,  and  they  were 
interested  in  her  "young  man." 

"  And  to  think  you  will  be  in  Ireland  to-morrow," 
said  Elinor,  "over  the  sea,  with  the  Channel  between 
us — in  another  island  !  " 

'•I  don't  see  much  that's  wonderful  in  that,"  said 
Phil,  "  the  boat  goes  every  day." 

"  Oh,  there's  nothing  wonderful  about  the  boat. 

Hundreds  might  go,  and  I  shouldn't  mind,  but  you 

It's  strange  to  think  of  your  going  off  into  a  world  I 
don't  know  at  all — and  then  coming  back." 

'•  To  take  you  off  to  that  world  you  don't  know,  Nell  •, 


TUK  MAURI. \c-i-:  or  ELI 

and  then  the  time  will  come  when  you  will  know  it  as 
well  as  I  do,  and  more,  too  ;  and  be  able  to  set  me  down 
in  my  proper  place." 

"  What  is  your  proper  place?  Your  place  will  always 
be  the  same.  Phil,  you've  been  so  good  to  me  this 
time  ;  you've  made  everybody  like  you  so.  Mamma — 
that's  the  best  of  all.  She  was  a  little — I  can't  say  jeal- 
ous, that  is  not  the  right  word,  but  uncertain  and 
frightened — which  just  means  that  she  did  not  know 
you,  Phil ;  now  you've  condescended  to  let  yourself  be 
known." 

"  Have  I,  Nell?  I've  had  more  luck  than  meaning  if 
that's  so." 

"  Tis  that  you've  condescended  to  let  yourself  be 
known.  A  man  has  such  odious  pride.  He  likes  to 
show  himself  all  on  the  wrong  side,  to  brave  people's 
opinions — as  if  it  was  better  to  be  liked  for  the  badness 
iu  you  than  for  the  goodness  in  you  ! ' 

'"'What's  the  goodness  in  me,  Nell?  I'd  like  to 
know,  and  then  I  can  have  it  ready  in  other  emergen- 
cies and  serve  it  out  as  it  is  wanted." 

"  Oh,  Phil !  the  goodness  in  you  is — yourself.  You 
can't  help  being  nice  when  you  throw  off  those  society 
airs.  When  you  are  talking  with  Mariamne  and  all 
that  set  of  people " 

"  Why  can't  you  call  her  Jew?  life  is  too  short  to  say 
all  those  syllables." 

'•  I  don't  like  you  to  call  her  Jew.  It's  unkind. 
I  don't  think  she  deserves  it.  It's  a  sort  of  an  in- 
sult." 

"  Shut  up,  Nell.  It's  her  name  and  that's  enough. 
M:ir-ry-am-ne  !  It's  a  beast  of  a  name  to  begin  with. 
And  do  you  think  any  of  us  has  got  time  to  say  as 
much  as  that  for  one  woman  ?  Oh,  I  suppose  I'm  fond 
of  her — as  men  are  of  their  sisters.  She  is  not  a  bad 
sort— mean  as  her  name,  and  never  fond  of  parting 
with  her  money — but  stands  by  a  fellow  in  a  kind  of  a 
way  all  the-  same." 

"  I'll  never  call  her  Jew,"  said  Elinor  ;  "  and,  Phil, 
all  this  wonderful  amount  of  things  you  have  to  do  is 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  139 

simply — nothing.  What  do  you  ever  do  ?  It  is  the 
people  who  do  things  that  have  time  to  spare.  I  know 
one " 

"  Don't  come  down  on  me,  Nell,  again  with  that  eter- 
nal Cousin  John." 

"Phil!  I  never  think  of  him  till  you  put  him 
into  my  head.  I  was  thinking  of  a  gentleman  who 
writes " 

"Rubbish,  Nell !  What  have  I  to  do  with  men  that 
write,  or  you  either?  We  are  none  of  us  of  that  sort. 
I  do  what  my  set  do,  and  more — for  there  was  this  di- 
rector business  ;  and  I  should  never  mind  a  bit  of  work 
that  was  well  paid,  like  attending  Board  meetings  and 
so  forth,  or  signing  my  name  to  papers." 

"  What,  without  reading  them,  Phil?  " 

"  Don't  come  over  a  fellow  with  your  cleverness, 
Nell !  I  am  not  a  reader  ;  but  I  should  take  good  care 
I  knew  what  was  in  the  papers  before  I  signed  them,  I 
can  tell  you.  Eh  !  you'd  like  me  to  slave,  to  get  you 
luxuries,  you  little  exacting  Nell." 

-  "Yes,  Phil,"  she  said,  "I'd  like  to  think  you  were 
working  for  our  living.  I  should  indeed.  It  seems 
somehow  so  much  finer — so  real  a  life.  And  I  should 
work  at  home." 

"A  great  deal  you  would  work,"  he  said,  laughing, 
'•  with  those  scraps  of  fingers  !  Let's  hear  what  you 
would  do — bits  of  little  pictures,  or  impossible  things 
in  pincushions,  or  so  forth — and  walk  out  in  your  most 
becoming  bonnet  to  force  them  down  some  poor  shop- 
keeper's throat  ? " 

"Phil!"  she  said,  "how  contemptuous  you  are  of 
my  efforts.  But  I  never  thought  of  either  sketches  or 
pincushions.  I  should  work  at  home  to  keep  the  house 
nice — to  look  after  the  servants,  and  guide  the  cook, 
and  see  that  you  had  nice  dinners." 

"  And  warm  my  slippers  by  the  parlour  fire,"  said 
Phil.  "That's  too  domestic,  Nell,  for  VOAI  and  me." 

"  But  we  are  going  to  be  very  domestic,  Phil." 

"  Are  we  ?  Not  if  I  knows  it  :  yawn  our  heads  off, 
and  get  to  hate  one  another.  Not  for  me,  Nell.  You'll 


140  'iilK  MAU1UA(J£   0V  ELINOR. 


lintl  yourself  up  to  the  eyes  in  engagements  before  you 
know  where  you  are.  No,  no,  old  girl,  you  may  do  a 
deal  with  me,  but  you  don't  make  a  domestic  man  of 
Phil  Coinpton.  Time  enough  for  that  when  we've  had 
our  fling." 

"I  don't  want  any  fling,  Phil,"  she  said,  clinging  a 
little  closer  to  his  arm. 

"  But  I  do,  iny  pet,  in  the  person  of  Benedick  the 
married  man.  Don't  you  think  I  want  to  show  all  the 
fellows  what  a  stunning  little  wife  I've  got?  and  all  the 
women  I  used  to  flirt  with  - 

"  Did  you  use  to  flirt  much  with  them,  Phil  ?  " 

"  You  didn't  think  I  flirted  with  the  men,  did  you  ? 
like  you  did,"  said  Phil,  who  was  not  particular  about 
his  grammar.  "  I  want  to  show  you  off  a  bit.  Nell. 
When  we  go  down  to  the  governor's,  there  you  can  be 
as  domestic  as  you  like.  That's  the  line  to  take  with 
him,  and  pays  too  if  you  do  it  well." 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  as  if  you  were  always  calculating  for 
your  advantage,"  she  said,  "for  you  are  not,  Phil.  You 
are  not  a  prudent  person,  but  a  horrid,  extravagant 
spendthrift  ;  if  you  go  on  chucking  sovereigns  about  as 
you  did  yesterday." 

'•Well,"  he  said,  laughing,  "wasn't  it  well  spent? 
Didn't  I  make  your  Rector  open  his  old  eyes,  and  stop 
the  mouths  of  the  old  maids  ?  I  don't  throw  away  sov- 
ereigns in  a  general  way,  Nell,  only  when  there's  a  pur- 
pose in  it.  But  I  think  I  did  them  all  finely  that  time 
—  had  them  on  toast,  eh?" 

"You  made  an  impression,  if  that  is  what  you  mean  ; 
but  I  confess  I  thought  you  did  it  out  of  kindness. 
Phil." 

"To  the  Punch  and  Judy?  catch  me!  Sovereigns 
ain't  plentiful  enough  for  that.  You  little  exacting 
thing,  ain't  you  pleased,  when  I  did  it  to  please  you, 
and  get  you  credit  among  your  friends  ?  " 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you,  I'm  sure,  Phil,"  she  said. 
very  soberly,  "  but  I  should  so  much  rather  you  had 
not  thought  of  that.  A  shilling  would  have  done  jn^t 
as  well,  and  they  would  have  got  a  bed  at  the  Bull's 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  141 

Head,  and  been  quite  kindly  treated.  Is  this  your  train 
coming?  It's  a  little  too  soon,  I  think." 

"  Thanks  for  the  compliment,  Nell.  It  is  really  late," 
he  said,  looking  at  his  watch,  '•  but  the  time  flies,  don't 
it,  pet,  when  you  and  I  are  together  ?  Here,  you  fel- 
low, put  my  bag  in  a  smoking  carriage.  And  now,  you 
darling,  we've  got  to  part  ;  only  for  a  little  time,  Nell." 

"  Only  for  a  week,"  she  said,  with  a  smile  and  a  tear. 

"  Not  so  long — a  rush  along  the  rail,  a  blow  on  the 
sea,  and  then  back  again;  I  shall  only  be  a  day  over 
there,  and  then — bless  you,  Nell.  Good-bye — take  care 
of  yourself,  my  little  duck  :  take  care  of  yourself  for 
me." 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Elinor,  with  a  little  quiver  of  her 
lip.  A  parting  at  a  roadside  station  is  a  very  abrupt 
affair.  The  train  stops,  the  passenger  is  shoved  in, 
there  is  a  clanging  of  the  doors,  and  in  a  moment  it  is 
gone.  She  had  scarcely  realized  that  the  hour  had 
come  before  he  was  whirled  off  from  her,  and  the 
swinging  line  of  carriages  disappeared  round  the  next 
curve.  She  stood  looking  vaguely  after  it  till  the  old 
porter  came  up,  who  had  known  her  ever  since  she  was 
a  child. 

"Beg  your  pardon,  miss,  but  the  pony  is  a- waiting," 
he  said.  And  then  he  uttered  his  sympathy  in  the 
form  of  a  question  : — "  Coming  back  very  soon,  miss, 
ain't  the  gentleman?  "  he  said. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  very  soon,"  she  said,  rousing  herself  up. 

"  And  if  I  may  make  bold  to  say  it,  miss,"  said  the 
porter,  "an  open-hearted  gentleman  as  ever  I  see. 
There's  many  as  gives  us  a  threepenny  for  more  than 
I've  done  for  'im.  And  look  at  what  he's  give  me,"  he 
said,  showing  the  half-crown  in  his  hand. 

Did  he  do  that  from  calculation  to  please  her,  ungra- 
cious girl  as  she  was,  who  was  so  hard  to  please  ?  But 
he  never  could  have  known  that  she  would  see  it.  She 
walked  through  the  little  station  to  the  pony  carriage, 
feeling  that  all  the  eyes  of  the  people  about  were  upon 
her.  They  were  all  sympathetic,  all  equally  aware  that 
she  had  just  parted  with  her  lover  :  all  ready  to  cheer 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR. 

her,  if  she  had  given  them  an  opportunity,  by  remind- 
ing her  of  his  early  return.  The  old  porter  followed  her 
out,  and  assisted  at  her  ascent  into  the  pony  carriage. 
He  said,  solemnly,  "  And  an  'andsome  gentleman,  miss, 
as  ever  I  see,"  as  he  fastened  the  apron  over  her  feet. 
She  gave  him  a  friendly  nod  as  she  drove  away. 

How  dreadful  it  is  to  be  so  sensitive,  to  receive  a  wound 
so  easily !  Elinor  was  vexed  more  than  she  could  say 
by  her  lover's  denial  of  the  reckless  generosity  with 
which  she  had  credited  him.  To  think  that  he  had 
done  it  in  order  to  produce  the  effect  which  had  given 
her  so  distinct  a  sensation  of  pleasure  changed  that  effect 
into  absolute  pain.  And  yet  in  the  fantastic  susceptibil- 
ity of  her  nature,  there  was  something  in  old  Judkin's 
half-crown  which  soothed  her  again.  A  shilling  would 
have  been  generous,  Elinor  said  to  herself,  with  a  femi- 
nine appreciation  of  the  difference  of  small  things  as 
well  as  great,  whereas  half-a-crown  was  lavish — ergo, 
he  gave  the  sovereign  also  out  of  natural  prodigality, 
as  she  had  hoped,  not  out  of  calculation  as  he  said. 
She  drove  soberly  home,  thinking  over  all  these  things 
in  a  mood  very  different  from  that  triumphant  happi- 
ness with  which  she  started  from  the  cottage  with 
Phil  by  her  side.  The  sunshine  was  still  as  bright,  but 
it  had  taken  an  air  of  routine  and  commonplace  to  Eli- 
nor. It  had  come  to  be  only  the  common  day,  not  the 
glory  and  freshness  of  the  morning.  She  felt  herself,  as 
she  had  never  done  before,  on  the  edge  of  a  world  un- 
known, where  everything  would  be  new  to  her,  where — 
it  WHS  possible — that  which  awaited  her  might  not  be 
unmixed  happiness,  might  even  be  the  reverse.  It  is 
seldom  that  a  girl  on  the  eve  of  marriage  either  thinks 
this  or  acknowledges  to  herself  that  she  thinks  it.  Eli- 
nor did  so  involuntarily,  without  thinking  upon  her 
thought  Perhaps  it  would  not  be  unmixed  happiness. 
Strange  clouds  seemed  to  hang  upon  the  horizon,  ready 
to  roll  up  in  tragic  darkness  and  gloom.  Oh,  no,  not 
tragic,  only  commonplace,  she  said  to  herself ;  opaque- 
ness, not  blackness.  But  yet  it  was  ominous  and  lower- 
ing, that  distant  sky. 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  143 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

THE  days  of  the  last  week  hurried  along  like  the 
grains  of  sand  out  of  an  hour  -  glass  when  they  are 
nearly  gone.  It  is  true  that  almost  everything  was 
done — a  few  little  bits  of  stitching,  a  few  things  still  to 
be  "got  up  "  alone  remaining,  a  handkerchief  to  mark 
with  Elinor's  name,  a  bit  of  lace  to  arrange,  just  enough 
to  keep  up  a  possibility  of  something  to  do  for  Mrs. 
Dennistoun  in  the  blank  of  all  other  possibilities — for 
to  interest  herself  or  to  occupy  herself  about  anything 
that  should  be  wanted  beyond  that  awful  limit  of  the 
wedding-clay  was  of  course  out  of  the  question.  Life 
seemed  to  stop  there  for  the  mother,  as  it  was  virtually 
to  begin  for  the  child  ;  though  indeed  to  Elinor  also, 
notwithstanding  her  love,  it  was  visible  more  in  the 
light  of  a  point  at  which  all  the  known  and  certain 
ended,  and  where  the  unknown  and  almost  inconceiv- 
able began.  The  curious  thing  was  that  this  barrier 
which  was  placed  across  life  for  them  both,  got  some- 
how between  them  in  those  last  days  which  should 
have  been  the  most  tender  climax  of  their  intercourse. 
They  had  a  thousand  things  to  say  to  each  other,  but 
they  said  very  little.  In  the  evening  after  dinner, 
whether  they  went  out  into  the  garden  together  to 
watch  the  setting  of  the  young  moon,  or  whether  they 
sat  together  in  that  room  which  had  witnessed  all  Eli- 
nor's commencements  of  life,  free  to  talk  as  no  one  else 
in  the  world  could  ever  talk  to  either  of  them,  they  said 
very  little  to  each  other,  and  what  they  said  was  of  the 
most  commonplace  kind.  "  It  is  a  lovely  night  ;  how 
clear  one  can  see  the  road  on  the  other  side  of  the 
combe  ! "  "  And  what  a  bright  star  that  is  close  to  the 
moon  !  I  wish  I  knew  a  little  more  about  the  stai's." 
"They  are  just  as  beautiful,"  Mrs.  Dennistoun  would 
say,  "  as  if  you  knew  everything  about  them,  Elinor." 
"Are  you  cold,  mamma?  I  am  sure  I  can  see  you 


144  THE  MA1UIIAUE   OF  ELINOR. 

shiver.  Shall  I  run  and  get  you  a  shawl?  "  "It  is  a 
little  chilly  :  but  perhaps  it  will  be  as  well  to  go  in  now," 
the  mother  said.  And  then  indoors  :  "  Do  you  think 
you  will  like  this  lace  made  up  as  a  jabot,  Elinor  ?  " 
"You  are  giving  me  all  your  pretty  things,  though  yon 
know  you  understand  lace  much  better  than  I  do." 
"  Oh,  that  doesn't  matter,"  Mrs.  Dennistoun  said  hur- 
riedly ;  "that  is  a  taste  which  comes  with  time.  You 
will  like  it  as  well  as  I  do  when  you  are  as  old  as  I  am." 
"You  are  not  so  dreadfully  old,  mamma."  "No, 
that's  the  worst  of  it,''  Mrs.  Dennistoun  would  say,  and 
then  breakout  into  a  laugh.  "Look  at  the  shadow 
that  handkerchief  makes — how  fantastic  it  is !  "  she 
cried.  She  neither  cared  for  the  moon,  nor  for  the 
quaintness  of  the  shadows,  nor  for  the  lace  which  she 
was  pulling  into  dainty  folds  to  show  its  delicate  pat- 
tern— for  none  of  all  these  things,  but  for  her  only 
child,  who  was  going  from  her,  and  to  whom  she  had  a 
hundred,  and  yet  a  hundred,  things  to  say  :  but  none 
of  them  ever  came  from  her  lips. 

"  Mary  Dale  has  not  seen  your  things,  Elinor  :  she 
asked  if  she  might  come  to-morrow." 

"  I  think  we  might  have  had  to-morrow  to  ourselves, 
mamma — the  last  day  all  by  ourselves  before  those 
people  begin  to  arrive." 

"  Yes,  I  think  so  too  ;  but  it  is  difficult  to  say  no, 
and  as  she  was  not  here  when  the  others  came  -  -  She 
is  the  greatest  critic  in  the  parish.  She  will  have  so 
much  to  say." 

"  I  daresay  it  may  be  fun,"  said  Elinor,  brightening 
up  a  little,  "  and  of  course  anyhow  Alice  must  have 
come  to  talk  about  her  dress.  I  am  tired  of  those 
bride's-maids'  dresses  ;  they  are  really  of  so  little  con- 
sequence." Elinor  was  not  vain,  to  speak  of,  but  she 
thought  it  improbable  that  when  she  was  there  any  one 
would  look  much  at  the  bride's-maids'  dresses.  For 
one  thing,  to  be  sure,  the  bride  is  always  the  central 
figure,  and  there  were  but  two  bride's-maids,  which 
diminished  the  interest  ;  and  then — well,  it  had  to  be 
allowed  at  the  end  of  all,  that,  though  her  closest 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR.  145 

friends,  neither  Alice  Hudson  nor  Mary  Tatham  were, 
to  look  at,  very  interesting  girls. 

"  They  ai'e  of  great  consequence  to  them,"  said  Mrs. 
Dennistouu,  with  the  faintest  smile. 

"I  didn't  mean  that,  of  course,"  said  Elinor,  with  a 
blush  ;"  only  I  never  should  have  worried  about  my 
own  dress,  which  after  all  is  the  most  important,  as 
Alice  does  about  hers." 

"Which  nobody  will  look  at,"  Mrs.  Dennistouu  said. 

"I  did  not  say  that  :  but  to  tell  the  truth,  it  is  a  pity 
for  the  girls  that  the  men  will  riot  quite  be,  just^of 
their  world,  you  know.  Oh,  mamma,  you  know  it  is 
not  that  I  think  anything  of  that,  but  I  am  sorry  for 
Alice  and  Mary.  Mr.  Bolsover  and  the  other  gentle- 
men will  not  take  that  trouble  which  country  neigh- 
bours, or — or  John's  friend's  from  the  Temple  might 
have  done." 

"  Why  do  you  speak  of  John's  friends  from  the 
Temple,  Elinor  ?  " 

"  Mamma  !  for  no  reason  at  all.  Why  should  I  ? 
They  were  the  only  other  men  I  could  think  of." 

"Elinor,  did  John  ever  give  you  any  reason  to 
think " 

"  Mamma,"  cried  Elinor  again,  with  double  vehe- 
mence, her  countenance  all  ablaze,  "  of  course  he  never 
did  !  how  could  you  think  such  foolish  tilings?" 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  her  mother,  "I  am  very  glad 
he  did  not ;  it  will  prevent  any  embarrassment  between 
him  and  you — for  I  must  always  believe " 

"Don't,  please,  oh,  don't!  it  would  make  me  miser- 
able ;  it  would  take  all  my  happiness  away." 

Mrs.  Danuistoun  said  nothing,  but  she  sighed — a 
very  small,  infinitesimal  sigh — and  there  was  a  mo- 
ment's silence,  during  which  perhaps  that  sigh  per- 
vaded the  atmosphere  with  a  sort  of  breath  of  what 
might  have  been.  After  a  moment  she  spoke  again  : 

"  I  hope  you   have  not  packed  up  your  ornaments 
yet,  Elinor.     You  must  leave  them  to  the  very  last,  for 
Mary  would  like  to  see  that  beautiful  necklace.     What 
do  you  think  you  shall  w.ear  on  the  day  ?  " 
10 


146  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR 

"  Nothing,"  said  Elinor,  promptly.  She  was  about  to 
add,  "I  have  nothing  good  enough,"  but  paused  in  time. 

"  Not  my  little  star  ?  It  would  look  very  well,  ray 
darling,  to  fix  your  veil  on.  The  diamonds  are  very 
good,  though  perhaps  a  little  old-fashioned ;  you 
might  get  them  reset.  But — your  father  gave  it  me 
like  that." 

"  I  would  not  change  it  a  bit,  mamma,  for  anything 
in  the  world." 

"  Thanks,  my  dearest.  I  thought  that  was  how  you 
would  feel  about  it.  It  is  not  very  big,  of  course,  but 
it  really  is  very  good." 

"  Then  I  will  wear  it,  mamma,  if  it  will  please  you, 
but  nothing  else." 

"  It  would  please  me  :  it  would  be  like  having  some- 
thing from  your  father.  I  think  we  had  less  idea  of  or- 
naments in  my  day.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  proud  I  was 
of  my  diamond  star.  I  should  like  to  put  it  in  for  you 
myself,  Elinor." 

"  Oh,  mamma  !  "  This  was  the  nearest  point  they 
had  come  to  that  outburst  of  two  full  heai'ts  which  both 
of  them  would  have  called  breaking  down.  Mrs.  Deu- 
nistoun  saw  it  and  was  frightened.  She  thought  it 
would  be  betraying  to  Elinor  what  she  wished  her  never 
to  know,  the  unspeakable  desolation  to  which  she  was 
looking  forward  .when  her  child  was  taken  from  her. 
Elinor's  exclamation,  too,  was  a  protest  against  the  im- 
minent breaking  down.  They  both  came  back  with  a 
hurry,  with  a  panting  breath,  to  safer  ground. 

"  Yes,  that's  what  I  regret,"  she  said.  "  Mr.  Bol- 
sover  and  Harry  Compton  will  laugh  a  little  at  the  Rec- 
tory. They  will  not  be  so — nice  as  young  men  of  their 
own  kind." 

"  The  Rectory  people  are  just  as  well  born  as  any  of 
inor." 

"Oh,  precisely,  mamma:  I  know  that;  but  we 

too It  is  what  they  call  a  different  monde.  I  don't 

think  it  is  half  so  nice  a  monde,"  said  the  girl,  feeling 
that  she  had  gone  further  than  she  intended  to  do  ; 
"  but  you  know,  mamma " 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  14:7 

I   kno\v,    Elinor  :    but   I  scarcely    expected    from 


vou- 


"  Oh,"  cried  Elinor  again,  in  exasperation,  "  if  you 
think  that  I  shave  that  feeling  !  I  think  it  odious,  I 
think  their  inonde  is  vulgar,  nasty,  miserable !  I 
think " 

"  Don't  go  too  far  the  other  way,  Elinor.  Your 
husband  will  be  of  it,  and  you  must  learn  to  like  it. 
You  think,  perhaps,  all  that  is  new  to  me?" 

••Xo,''  said  Elinor,  her  bright  eyes,  all  the  brighter 
for  tears,  falling  before  her  mother's  look.  "  I  know,  of 
course,  that  you  have  seen — all  kinds " 

But  she  faltered  a  little,  for  she  did  not  believe  that 
her  mother  was  acquainted  with  Phil's  cii-cle  and  their 
wonderful  ways. 

"  They  will  be  civil  enough,"  she  went  on,  hurriedly. 
"  and  as  everybody  chaffs  so  much  nowadays  they  will, 
perhaps,  never  be  found  out.  But  I  don't  like  it  for  my 
friends." 

'•'  They  will  chaff  me  also,  no  doubt,''  Mrs.  Deuuistoun 
said. 

"  Oh,  you,  mamma !  they  are  not  such  fools  as  that," 
cried  poor  Elinor ;  but  in  her  own  mind  she  did  not 
feel  confident  that  there  was  any  such  limitation  to 
their  folly.  Mrs.  Deunistoun  laughed  a  little  to  herself, 
which  was,  perhaps,  more  alarming  than  that  other 
moment  when  she  was  almost  ready  to  cry. 

"You  had  better  wear  Lord  St.  Serfs  ring,"  she  said, 
after  a  moment,  with  a  tone  of  faint  derision  which 
Elinor  knew. 

"You  might  as  well  tell  me,"  cried  the  bride,  "to 
wear  Lady  Mariamne's  revolving  dishes.  Xo,  I  will 
wear  nothing,  nothing  but  your  star." 

"  You  have  got  nothing  half  so  nice,"  said  the  mother. 
Oh  yes,  it  was  a  little  revenge  upon  those  people  who 
were  taking  her  daughter  from  her,  and  who  thought 
themselves  at  liberty  to  jeer  at  all  her  friends  :  but  as 
was  perhaps  inevitable  it  touched  Elinor  a  little  too. 
She  restrained  herself  from  some  retort  with  a  sense  of 
extreme  and  almost  indignant  self-control :  though  what 


148  THK  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

retort  Elinor  could  have  made  I  cannot  tell.  It  was 
much  "nicer"  than  anything  else  she  had.  None  of 
Phil  Compton's  great  friends,  who  were  not  of  the  same 
nmnde  as  the  people  at  Windyhill,  had  offered  his  bride 
anything  to  compare  with  the  diamonds  which  her 
father  had  given  to  her  mother  before  she  was  born. 
And  Elinor  was  quite  aware  of  the  truth  of  what  her 
mother  said.  But  she  would  have  liked  to  make  a 
retort — to  say  something  smart  and  piquant  and  witty 
in  return. 

And  thus  the  evening  was  lost,  the  evening  in  which 
there  was  so  much  to  say,  one  of  the  three  only,  no 
more,  that  were  left. 

Miss  Dale  came  next  day  to  see  "the  things,"  and 
was  very  amiable  :  but  the  only  thing  in  this  visit  which 
affected  Elinor's  mind  was  a  curious  little  unexpected 
assault  this  lady  made  upon  her  when  she  was  going 
away.  Elinor  had  gone  out  with  her  to  the  porch,  ac- 
cording to  the  courteous  usage  of  the  house.  But  when 
they  had  reached  that  shady  place,  from  which  the 
green  combe  and  the  blue  distance  were  visible,  stretch- 
ing far  into  the  soft  autumnal  mists  of  the  evening, 
Mary  Dale  turned  upon  her  and  asked  her  suddenly, 
"  What  night  was  it  that  Mr.  Compton  came  here  ?  " 

Elinor  was  much  startled,  but  she  did  not  lose  her 
self-possession.  All  the  trouble  about  that  date  had  dis- 
appeared out  of  her  mind  in  the  stress  and  urgency  of 
other  things.  She  cast  back  her  mind  with  an  effort  and 
asked  herself  what  the  conflict  and  uncertainty  of  which 
she  was  dimly  conscious,  had  been  ?  It  came  back  to 
her  dimly  without  any  of  the  pain  that  had  been  in  it. 
"It  was  on  the  sixth,"  she  said  quietly,  without  excite- 
ment. She  could  scarcely  recall  to  her  mind  what  it 
was  that  had  moved  her  so  much  in  respect  to  this  date 
only  a  little  time  ago. 

"Oh,  you  must  be  mistaken,  Elinor,  I  saw  him 
coming  up  from  the  station.  It  was  later  than  that. 
It  was,  if  I  were  to  give  my  life  for  it,  Thursday 
night." 

This  was  four  or  five  nights  before  and  a  haze  of  un- 


THE  MAURI  AGE   OF  ELINOR.  149 

certainty  had  fallen  on  all  things  so  remote.  But  Eli- 
nor cast  her  eyes  upon  the  calendar  in  tire  hall  and  calm 
possessed  her  breast.  "  It  was  the  sixth,"  she  said  with 
composed  tones,  as  certain  as  of  anything  she  had  ever 
known  in  the  course  of  her  life. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  must  know,"  said  Mary  Dale. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  LOOK  at  that,  Elinor,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  next 
day,  when  she  had  read,  twice  over,  a  letter,  large  and 
emblazoned  with  a  very  big'  monogram,  which  Elinor, 
well  perceiving  from  whom  it  came,  had  furtively 
watched  the  effect  of  from  behind  an  exceeding  small 
letter  of  her  own.  Phil  was  not  remarkable  as  a  cor- 
respondent :  his  style  was  that  of  the  primitive  mind 
which  hopes  its  correspondent  is  well,  "  as  this  leaves 
me."  He  had  never  much  more  to  say. 

"From  Mariainne,  mamma?" 

"  She  takes  great  pains  to  make  us  certain  of  that 
fact  at  least,"  Mrs.  Dennistouu  said  ;  which  indeed  was 
very  true,  for  the  name  of  the  writer  was  sprawled  in 
gilt  letters  half  over  the  sheet.  And  this  was  how  it 


'•  DEAR  Mus.  DKVNISTOUN, — 

"  I  have  been  thinking  what  a  great  pity  it  would  be 
to  bore  you  with  me,  and  my  maid,  and  all  my  belong- 
ings. I  am  so  silly  that  I  can  never  be  happy  without 
dragging  a  lot  of  things  about  with  me — dogs,  and 
people,  and  so  forth.  Going  to  town  in  September  is 
dreadful,  but  it  is  rather  chic  to  do  a  thing  that  its  quite 
out  of  the  way,  and  one  may  perhaps  pick  up  a  little 
fun  in  the  evening.  So  if  you  don't  mind,  instead  of 
inflicting  Fifine  and  Bijou  and  Leocadie,  not  to  mention 
some  people  that  might  be  with  me,  upon  you,  and 
putting  your  house  all  out  of  order,  as  these  odious  little 


150  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR, 

dogs  do  when  people  are  not  used  to  them — I  will  come 
down  by  the  train,  which  I  hope  arrives  quite  punc- 
tually, in  time  to  see  poor  Phil  turned  off.  I  am  sure 
you  will  be  so  kind  as  to  send  a  carriage  for  me  to  the 
railway.  We  shall  be  probably  a  party  of  four,  and  I 
hear  from  Phil  you  are  so  hospitable  and  kind  that  I 
need  not  hesitate  to  bring  my  friends  to  breakfast 
after  it's  all  over.  I  hope  Phil  will  go  through  it  like 
a  man,  and  I  wouldn't  for  worlds  deprive  him  of  the 
support  of  his  family.  Love  to  Nell.  I  am, 
"  Yours  truly, 

"  MARIAMNE  PRESTWICH." 

"The  first  name  very  big  and  the  second  very 
small,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  as  she  received  the  letter 
back. 

"  I  am  sure  we  are  much  obliged  to  her  for  not 
coming,  mamma !  " 

"  Perhaps — but  not  for  this  announcement  of  her  not 
coming.  I  don't  wish  to  sa}"  anything  against  your  new 
relations,  Elinor " 

"  You  need  not  put  any  restraint  upon  yourself  in 
consideration  of  my  feelings,"  said  Elinor,  with  a  flush 
of  annoyance. 

And  this  made  Mrs.  Dennistoun  pause.  They  ate 
their  breakfast,  which  was  a  very  light  meal,  in  silence. 
It  was  the  day  before  the  wedding.  The  rooms  down- 
stairs had  been  carefully  prepared  for  Phil's  sister. 
Though  Mrs.  Dennistoun  was  too  proud  to  say  any- 
thing about  it,  she  had  taken  great  pains  to  make  these 
pretty  rooms  MS  much  like  a  fine  lady's  chamber  as  had 
been  possible.  She  had  put  up  new  curtains,  and  a 
Persian  carpet,  and  looked  out  of  her  stores  all  the 
pretty  things  she  could  find  to  decorate  the  two  rooms 
of  the  little  apartment.  She  had  gone  in  on  the  way 
down-stairs  to  take  a  final  survey,  and  it  seemed  to  her 
that  they  were  very  pretty.  No  picture  could  have 
been  more  beautiful  than  the  view  from  the  long  low 
lattice  window,  in  which,  as  in  a  frame,  wns  set  the 
foreground  of  the  copse  with  its  glimpses  of  ruddy 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  151 

heather  and  the  long  sweep  of  the  heights  beyond, 
which  (stretched  away  into  the  infinite.  That  at  least 
could  not  be  surpassed  anywhere ;  and  the  Persian 
carpet  was  like  ruoss  under  foot,  and  the  chairs  luxu- 
rious— and  there  was  a  collection  of  old  china  in  some 
open  shelves  which  would  have  made  the  mouth  of  an 
amateur  water.  Well !  it  was  Lady  Mariamne's  own  loss 
if  she  preferred  the  chance  of  picking  up  a  little  fun  in 
the  evening,  to  spending  the  night  decorously  in  that 
pretty  apartment,  and  making  further  acquaintance 
with  her  new  sister.  It  was  entirely,  Mrs.  Dennistoun 
said  to  herself,  a  matter  for  her  own  choice.  But  she 
was  much  affronted  all  the  same. 

"  It  will  be  very  inconvenient  indeed  sending  a 
carriage  for  her,  Elinor.  Except  the  carriage  that  is  to 
take  you  to  church  there  is  none  good  enough  for  this 
fine  lady.  I  had  concluded  she  would  go  in  your 
uncle  Tatham's  carriage.  It  may  be  very  fine  to  have 
a  Lady  Mariamne  in  one's  party,  but  it  is  a  great 
nuisance  to  have  to  change  all  one's  arrangements  at 
the  last  moment." 

"If  you  were  to  send  the  wagonette  from  the  Bull's 
Head,  as  rough  as  possible,  with  two  of  the  farm  horses, 
she  would  think  it  genre,  if  not  chic " 

"  I  cannot  put  up  with  all  this  nonsense  !  "  cried  Mrs. 
Denuistoun,  with  a  flush  on  her  cheek.  "You  are  just 
as  bad  as  they  are,  Elinor,  to  suggest  such  a  thing  !  I 
have  held  my  own  place  in  society  wherever  I  have  been, 
and  I  don't  choose  to  be  condescended  to  or  laughed  at, 
in  fact,  by  any  visitor  in  the  world  !  " 

"Mamma!  do  you  think  anyone  would  ever  com- 
pare you  with  Mariamne — the  Jew  ?  " 

"  Don't  exasperate  me  with  those  abominable  nick- 
names. They  will  give  you  one  next,  She  is  an  ex- 
ceedingly ill-bred  and  ill-mannered  woman.  Picking 
up  a  little  fun  in  the  evening  !  What  does  she  mean 
by  picking  up  a  little  fun " 

'•They  will  perhaps  go  to  the  theatre — a  number  of 
them  ;  and  as  nobody  is  in  town  they  will  laugh  very 
much  at  the  kind  of  people,  and  perhaps  the  kind  of 


152  THE  MARRIAGE  OF   F.f.JNOR. 

play-  and  it,  will  be  a  great  joke  ever  after  among  them- 
selves— for  of  course  there  will  be  a  number  of  them 
together,"  said  Elinor,  disclosing-  her  acquaintance  with 
the  habits  of  her  new  family  with  downcast  eyes. 

"How  can  well-born  people  be  so  vulgar  and  ill- 
bred?"  cried  Mrs.  Dennistoun.  "  I  must  say  for  Philip 
that  though  he  is  careless  and  not  nearly  so  particular 
as  I  should  like,  still  he  is  not  like  that.  He  has  some- 
thing of  the  politeness  of  the  heart." 

Elinor  did  not  raise  her  downcast  eyes.  Phil  had 
been  on  his  very  good  behaviour  on  the  occasion  of  his 
last  hurried  visit,  but  she  did  not  feel  that  she  could 
answer  even  for  Phil.  "  I  am  very  glad  anyhow,  that 
she  is  not  coming,  mamma :  at  least  we  shall  have  the 
last  night  and  the  last  morning  to  ourse! 

Mrs.  Dennistoun  shook  her  head.  "  The  Tathams  will 
be  here,"  she  said  ;  "  and  everybody,  to  dinner — all  the 
party.  We  must  go  now  and  see  how  we  can  enlarge 
the  table.  To-night's  party  will  be  the  largest  we  have 
ever  had  in  the  cottage."  She  sighed  a  little  and 
paused,  restraining  herself.  "  We  shall  have  no  quiet 
evening — nor  morning  either — again  ;  it  will  be  a  bustle 
and  a  rush.  You  and  I  will  never  have  any  more  quiet 
evenings,  Elinor  :  for  when  you  come  back  it  will  be 
another  thing." 

"Oh,  mother!"  cried  Elinor,  throwing  herself  into 
her  mother's  arms  :  and  for  a  moment  they  stood  closely 
clasped,  feeling  as  if  their  hearts  would  burst,  yet  very 
well  aware,  too,  underneath,  that  any  number  of  quiet 
evenings  would  be  as  the  last,  when,  with  hearts  full  of 
a  thousand  things  to  say  to  each  other,  they  said  almost 
nothing — which  in  some  respects  was  worse  than  hav- 
ing no  quiet  evenings  evermore. 

In  the  afternoon  Phil  arrived,  having  returned  from 
Ireland  that  morning,  and  paused  only  to  refresh  him- 
self in  the  chambers  which  he  still  retained  in  town. 
He  had  met  all  his  hunting  friends  during  the  thire 
days  he  had  been  away  ;  and  though  he  retained  a  gal- 
lant appearance,  and  looked,  as  Alice  Hudson  thought, 
"  vcj  \  Tatic,"  Mrs.  Dennistoun  caught  with 


THE   CARRIAGE   OF  ELIXOR.  153 

anxiety  a  worn-out  look — the  look  of  excitement,  of 
nights  without  sleep,  much  smoke,  and,  perhaps,  much 
wine,  in  his  eyes.  What  a  woman  feels  who  has  to  hand 
over  her  spotless  child,  the  most  dear  and  pure  thing 
upon  earth,  to  a  man  fresh  from  those  indulgences  and 
dissipations  which  never  seem  harmless,  and  always  are 
repellent  to  a  woman,  is  not  to  be  described.  For- 
tunately the  bride  herself,  in  invincible  ignorance  and 
unconsciousness,  seldom  feels  in  that  way.  To  Elinor 
her  lover  looked  tired  about  the  eyes,  which  was  very 
well  explained  by  his  night  journey,  and  by  the  agita- 
tion of  the  moment.  And,  indeed,  she  did  not  see  very 
much  of  Phil,  who  had  his  friends  with  him — his  aide- 
de-camp,  Bolsover,  and  his  brother  Harry.  These  three 
gentlemen  carried  an  atmosphere  of  smoke  and  other 
scents  with  them  into  the  lavender  of  the  Rectory, 
which  was  too  amazing  in  that  hemisphere  for  words, 
and  talked  their  own  talk  in  the  midst  of  the  fringe  of 
rustics  who  were  their  hosts,  with  a  calm  which  was  ex- 
traordinary, breaking  into  the  midst  of  the  Rector's 
long-winded,  amiable  sentences,  and  talking  to  each 
other  over  Mrs.  Hudson's  head.  "  I  sav,  Dick,  don't  you 

*  *  */ 

remember?"  "By  Jove,  Phil,  you  are  too  bad!" 
sounded,  with  many  other  such  expressions  and  re- 
minders, over  the  Rectory  party,  strictly  silent  round 
their  own  table,  trying  to  make  a  courteous  remark  now 
and  then,  but  confounded,  in  their  simple  country  good 
manners,  by  the  tine  gentlemen.  And  then  there  was 
the  dinner-party  at  the  cottage  in  the  evening,  to  which 
Mr.  ami  Mrs.  Hudson  were  invited.  Such  a  dinner- 
p  irty  !  Old  Mr.  Tatham,  who  was  a  country  gentleman 
from  Dorsetshire,  with  his  nice  daughter,  Mary  Tatham, 
a  quiet  country  young  lady,  accustomed,  when  she  went 
into  the  world  at  all,  to  the  serious  young  men  of  the 
Temple,  and  John's  much-occupied  friends,  who  had 
their  own  asides  about  cases,  and  what  So-and-So  had 
said  in  court,  but  were  much  too  well-bred  before 
ladies  to  fall  into  "shop  ;"  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hudson, 
who  were  such  as  we  know  them  ;  and  the  bride's 
mother,  a  little  anxious,  but  always  debonair ;  and  Eli- 


154  THE  MARR1AOE  OF  ELINOR. 

nor  herself,  in  all  the  haze  and  sweet  confusion  of  the 
great  era  which  approached  so  closely.  The  three  men 
made  the  strangest  addition  that  can  be  conceived  to 
the  quiet  guests ;  but  things  went  better  under  the  dis- 
cipline of  the  dinner,  especially  as  Sir  John  Hunting- 
tower,  who  was  a  Master  of  the  hounds  and  an  old 
friend  of  the  Dennistouns,  was  of  the  party,  and  Lady 
Huntingtower,  who  was  an  impressive  person,  and  knew 
the  world.  This  lady  was  very  warm  in  her  congratu- 
lations to  Mrs.  Dennistoun  after  dinner  on  the  absence 
of  Lady  Mariamne.  "  I  think  you  are  the  luckiest 
woman  that  ever  was  to  have  got  clear  of  that  dreadful 
creature,"  she  said.  "Oh,  there  is  nothing  wrong  about 
her  that  I  know.  She  goes  everywhere  with  her  dogs 
and  her  cavaliers  Cervantes.  There's  safety  in  numbers, 
my  dear.  She  has  always  two  of  them  at  least  hanging 
about  her  to  fetch  and  carry,  and  she  thinks  a  great 
deal  more  of  her  dogs  ;  but  I  can't  think  what  you 
could  have  done  with  her  here." 

"And  what  will  my  Elinor  do  in  such  a  sphere?" 
the  troubled  mother  permitted  herself  to  say. 

"  Oh,  if  that  were  all,"  said  Lady  Huntingtower,  lift- 
ing up  her  fat  hands — she  was  one  of  those  who  had 
protested  against  the  marriage,  but  now  that  it  had 
come  to  this  point,  and  could  not  be  broken  off,  the 
judicious  woman  thought  it  right  to  make  the  best  of 
it — "Elinor  need  not  be  any  the  worse,"  she  said. 
"Thank  heaven,  you  are  not  obliged  to  be  mixed  up 
with  your  husband's  sister.  Elinor  must  take  a  line  of 
her  own.  You  should  come  to  town  yourself  her  first 
season,  and  help  her  on.  You  used  to  know  plenty  of 
people." 

"  But  they  say,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  "  that  it  is  so 
much  better  to  leave  a  young  couple  to  themselves,  and 
that  a  mother  is  always  in  the  way.'' 

"  If  I  were  you  I  would  not  pay  the  least  attention  to 
what  Ihcy  say.  If  you  hold  back  too  much  they  will 
K:IV,  'There  was  her  own  mother,  knowing  numbers  of 
nice  people,  that  never  took  the  trouble  to  lend  her  a 
hand.'" 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  F.LIXOR.  155 

"I  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Deunistoun,  turning  round  im- 
mediately to  this  other  aspect  of  affairs,  "  that  it  never 
will  be  necessary  for  the  world  to  interest  itself  at  all  in 
my  child's  affairs." 

"  Well,  of  course,  that  is  the  best,"  Lady  Hunting- 
tower  allowed,  "if  she  just  goes  softly  for  a  year  or  two 
till  she  feels  her  way." 

"But  then  she  is  so  young,  and  so  little  accustomed 
to  act  for  herself,"  said  the  mother,  with  another  change 
of  flank. 

"  Oh,  Elinor  has  a  great  deal  of  spirit.  She  must 
just  make  a  stand  against  the  Compton  set  and  take  her 
own  line." 

Mrs.  Hudson  and  Alice  and  Miss  Tat  ham  were  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room  exchanging  a  few  criticisms 
under  their  breath,  and  disposed  to  think  that  they 
were  neglected  by  their  hostess  for  the  greater  person- 
age with  whom  she  was  in  such  close  conversation.  And 
Lady  Mariamne's  defection  was  a  great  disappointment 
to  them  all.  "  I  should  like  to  have  seen  a  tine  lady 
quite  close,"  said  Mary  (it  was  not,  I  think,  usual  to 
speak  of  "  smart "  people  in  those  days),  "  one  there 
could  be  no  doubt  about,  a  little  fast  and  all  that.  I 
have  seen  them  in  town  at  a  distance,  but  all  the  people 
we  know  are  sure  country  people." 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Hudson,  primly.  "I  don't  like 
to  hear  you  talk  of  any  other  kind.  An  English  lady, 
I  hope,  whatever  is  her  rank,  can  only  be  of  one  kind." 

"Oh,  mamma,  you  know  very  well  Lady  Mariamne  is 
as  different  from  Lady  Huntingtower  as " 

"  Don't  mention  names,  my  dear ;  it  is  not  well-bred. 
The  one  is  young,  and  naturally  fond  of  gayety  ;  the 
other — well,  is  not  quite  so  young,  and  stout,  and  all 
that." 

"Oh,  that  is  all  very  well,"  said  Alice;  "but  Aunt 
Mary  says " 

Miss  Dale  was  coming  in  the  evening,  and  the  Miss 
Hills,  and  the  curate,  and  the  doctor,  and  various  other 
people,  who  could  not  be  asked  to  dinner,  to  whom  it 
had  been  carefully  explained  (which,  indeed,  was  a  fact 


156  THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR. 

they  knew)  that  to  dine  twelve  people  in  the  little  din- 
ing-room of  the  cottage  was  a  feat  which  was  ac- 
complished with  difficulty,  and  that  more  was  impossi- 
ble. Society  at  Windy-hill  was  very  tolerant  and  under- 
standing on  this  point,  for  all  the  dining-rooms  were 
small,  except,  indeed,  when  you  come  to  talk  of  such 
places  as  Huntingtower — and  they  were  very  glad  to  be 
permitted  to  have  a  peep  at  the  bridegroom  on  these 
terms,  or  rather,  if  truth  were  told,  of  the  bride,  and 
how  she  was  bearing  herself  so  near  the  crisis  of  her 
fate.  The  bridegroom  is  seldom  very  interesting  on 
such  occasions.  On  the  present  occasion  he  was  more 
interesting  than  usual,  because  he  was  the  Honourable 
Philip,  and  because  he  had  a  reputation  of  which*  most 
people  had  heard  something.  There  was  a  mixture  of 
alarm  and  suspicion  in  respect  to  him  which  increased 
the  excitement  ;  and  many  remarks  of  varied  kinds 
were  made.  "I  think  the  fellow's  face  quite  bears  out 
his  character,"  said  the  doctor  to  the  Rector.  "AVhat  a 
man  to  trust  a  nice  girl  to  !  "  Mr.  Hudson  t'elt  that  as 
the  bridegroom  was  living  under  his  roof  he  was  par- 
tially responsible,  and  discouraged  this  pessimistic  view. 
"Mr.  Compton  has  not,  perhaps,  had  all  the  ad  van: 
one  tries  to  secure  for  one's  own  son,"  he  said,  "  but.  I 
have  reason  to  believe  that  the  things  that  have  been 
said  of  him  are  much  exaggerated."  "Oh,  a 
tages  ! ' '  said  the  doctor,  thinking  of  Alick,  of  whom  it 
was  his  strongly  expressed  opinion  that  the  fellow 
should  be  turned  out  to  rough  it,  and  not  coddled  up 
and  spoiled  at  home.  But  while  these  remarks  were 
going  on,  Miss  Hill  had  been  expressing  to  the  curate 
an  entirely  different  view.  "I  think  he  has  a  /« '////,/'/// 
face,"  she  said  with  the  emphasis  some  ladies  use  ;  "  a 
little  worn,  perhaps,  with  being  too  much  in  the  world, 
and  I  wish  he  had  a  better  colour.  To  me  he  looks 
delicate  :  but  what  delightful  features,  Mr.  Whitebamls, 
and  what  an  aristocratic  air  !  " 

"  He  looks  tremendously  up  to  everything,"  the  cu- 
rate said,  with  a  faint  tone  of  envy  in  his  voice. 

"Don't  he  just?"  cried  Alick  Hudson.      "I  should 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  EL1XOR.  15 7 

think  there  wasn't  a  thing  he  couldn't  do — of  things 
that  men  do  do,  don't  you  know,"  cried  that  carefully 
trained  boy,  whose  style  was  confused,  though  his 
.ing  was  good.  Bat  probably  there  were  almost  as 
many  opinions  about  Phil  as  there  were  people  in  the 
His  two  backers-up  stood  in  a  corner — half  in- 
timidated, half  contemptuous  of  the  country  people, 
er  lot  for  Phil  to  fail  among,"  said  Dick  Bolsover. 
;-Que  diable  allait-il  faire  dans  cette  galore?"  said 
Harry  Compton,  who  had  been  about  the  world.  "  Oh, 
bosh  with  your  French,  that  nobody  understands,"  said 
the  best  man. 

But  in  the  meantime  Phil  was  not  there  at  all  to  be 
seen  of  men.  He  had  stolen  out  into  the  garden, 
where  there  was  a  white  vision  awaiting  him  in  the 
milky  moonlight.  The  autumn  haze  had  come  early 
this  season,  and  the  moon  was  misty,  veiled  with  white 
amid  a  jumble  of  soft  floating  vapours  in  the  sky.  Eli- 
nor stood  among  the  flowers,  which  showed  some 
strange  subdued  tints  of  colours  in  the  flooding  of  the 
white  light,  like  a  bit  of  consolidated  moonlight  in  her 
white  dress.  She  had  a  white  shawl  covering  her  from 
head  to  foot,  with  a  corner  thrown  over  her  hair. 
What  had  they  to  say  to  each  other  that  last  night  ? 
Not  much  ;  nothing  at  all  that  had  any  information  in 
it — whispers  inaudible  almost  to  each  other.  There 
was  something  in  being  together  for  this  stolen  mo- 
ment, just  on  the  eve  of  their  being  together  for  always, 
which  had  a  charm  of  its  own.  After  to-night,  no 
stealing  away,  no  escape  to  the  garden,  no  little  con- 
spiracy to  attain  a  meeting — the  last  of  all  those  de- 
lightful schemings  and  devices.  They  started  when 
they  heard  a  sound  from  the  house,  and  sped  along  the 
paths  into  the  shadow  like  the  conspirators  they  were — 
but  never  to  conspire  more  after  this  last  enthralling 
time. 

"You're  not  frightened.  Xell?" 

"  No — except  a  little.     There  is  one  thing " 

"  What  is  it,  my  pet  ?  If  it's  to  the  half  of  my  king- 
dom, it  shall  be  done." 


158  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

"Phil,  we  are  going  to  be  very  good  when  we  are 
together  ?  don't  laugh — to  help  each  other  ?  " 

He  did  laugh  low,  not  to  be  heard,  but  long.  "  I 
shall  have  no  temptation,"  he  said,  "  to  be  anything 
but  good,  you  little  goose  of  a  Nell,"  taking  it  for  a 
warning  of  possible  jealousy  to  come. 

"  Oh,  but  I  mean  both  of  us — to  help  each  other." 

"  Why,  Nell,  I  know  you'll  never  go  wrong — 

She  gave  him  a  little  impatient,  shake.  "  You  will 
not  understand  me,  Phil.  We  will  try  to  be  better 
than  we've  ever  been.  To  be  good — don't  you  know 
what  that  means? — in  every  way,  before  God." 

Her  voice  dropped  very  low,  and  he  was  for  a  mo- 
ment overawed.  "  You  mean  going  to  church,  Nell  ?  " 

"  I  mean — yes,  that  for  one  thing  ;  and  many  other 
things." 

"That's  dropping  rather  strong  upon  a  fellow,"  he 
said,  "just  at  this  moment,  don't  you  think,  when  I 
must  say  yes  to  everything  you  say." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  it  in  that  way ;  and  I  was  not 
thinking  of  church  particularly  ;  but  to  be  good,  very 
good,  true  and  kind,  in  our  hearts." 

"You  are  all  that  already,  Nell." 

"  Oh,  no,  not  what  I  mean.  When  there  are  two  of 
•as  instead  of  one  we  can  do  so  much  more." 

"  Well,  my  pet,  it's  for  you  to  make  out  the  much 
more.  I'm  quite  content  with  jou  as  you  are  ;  it's  me 
that  you  want  to  improve,  and  heaven  knows  there's 
plenty  of  room  for  that." 

"No,  Phil,  not  you  more  than  me,"  she  said. 

"  We'll  choose  a  place  where  the  sermon's  short,  and 
we'll  see  about  it.  You  mean  little  minx,  to  bind  a 
man  down  to  go  to  church,  the  night  before  his  wed- 
ding day !  " 

And  then  there  was  a  sound  of  movement  indoors, 
and  after  a  little  while  the  bride  appeared  among  the 
guests  with  a  little  more  colour  than  usual,  and  an  anx- 
iously explanatory  description  of  something  she  had 
been  obliged  to  do  ;  and  the  confused  hour  flew  on 
\vith  much  sound  of  talking  and  very  little  understand- 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELTXGR.  159 

ing  of  what  was  said.  And  then  all  the  visitors  streamed 
away  group  after  group  into  the  moonlight,  disappear- 
ing like  ghosts  under  the  shadow  of  the.trees.  Finally, 
the  Rectory  party  went  too,  the  three  mild  ladies  sur- 
rounded by  an  exciting  circle  of  cigars  ;  for  Alick,  of 
course,  had  broken  all  bonds,  and  even  the  Rector 
accepted  that  rare  indulgence.  Alice  Hudson  half  de- 
plored, half  exulted  for  years  after  in  the  scent  that 
would  cling  round  one  particular  evening  dress.  Five 
gentlemen,  all  with  cigars,  and  papa  as  bad  as  any  of 
them  !  There  had  never  been  such  an  extraordinary  ex- 
perience in  her  life. 

And  then  the  Tathams,  too,  withdrew,  and  the  moth- 
er and  daughter  stood  alone  on  their  own  hearth.  Oh, 
so  much,  so  much  as  there  was  to  say  !  but  hosv  were 
they  to  say  it  ? — the  last  moment,  which  was  so  pre- 
cious and  so  intolerable — the  moment  that  would  never 
come  again. 

"You  were  a  long  time  with  Philip,  Elinor,  in  the 

garden.  I  think  all  your  old  friends the  last 

night.'' 

"I  wanted  to  say  something  to  him,  mamma,  that  I 
ha  1  never  had  the  courage  to  say." 

Mrs.  Dennistoun  had  been  looking  dully  into  the  dim 
mirror  over  the  mantlepiece.  She  turned  half  round 
to  her  daughter  with  an  inquiring  look. 

"  Oh,  mamma,  I  wanted  to  say  to  him  that  we  must 
be  good !  We're  so  happy.  God  is  so  kind  to  us  ;  and 
you — if  you  suppose  I  don't  think  of  you !  It  was  to 
s iy  to  him — building  our  house  upon  all  this,  God's 
mercy  and  your  loss,  and  all — that  we  are  doubly, 
doubly  bound  to  serve — and  to  love — and  to  be  good 
people  befoi-e  God  ;  and  like  you,  mother,  like  you  ! " 

"  My  darling  !  "  Mrs.  Dennistoun  said.  And  that  was 
all.  She  asked  no  questions  as  to  how  it  was  to  be 
done,  or  what  he  replied.  Elinor  had  broken  down 
hysterically,  and  sobbed  out  the  words  one  at  a  time, 
as  they  would  come  through  the  choking  in  her  throat. 
Needless  to  say  that  she  ended  in  her  mother's  arms, 
her  head  upon  the  bosom  which  had  nursed  her,  her 


1HO  THE  MARRIAGE   OF   ELINOR. 

slight  weight  dependent  upon  the  supporter  and  pro- 
tector of  all  her  life. 

That  was  the  last  evening.  There  remained  the  last 
morning  to  come  ;  and  after  that — what?  The  great 
sea  of  an  unknown  life,  a  new  pilot,  and  a  ship  untried. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

AND  now  the  last  morning  had  come. 

The  morning  of  a  wedding-day  is  a  flying  and  pre- 
carious moment  which  seems  at  once  as  if  it  never 
would  end,  and  as  if  it  were  a  hurried  preliminary  in- , 
terval  in  which  the  necessary  preparations  never  could 
be  done.  Elinor  was  not  allowed  to  come  down-stairs 
to  help,  as  she  felt  it  would  be  natural  to  do.  It  was 
Mary  Tatham  who  arranged  the  flowers  on  the  table, 
and  helped  Dennistoun  to  superintend  everything. 
All  the  women  in  the  house,  though  they  were  so  busy, 
were  devoted  at  every  spare  moment  to  the  service  of 
Elinor.  They  brought  her  simple  breakfast  up-stairs, 
one  maid  carrying  the  tray  and  another  the  teapot, 
that  each  might  have  their  share.  The  cook,  though 
she  was  overwhelmed  with  work,  had  made  some  cakes 
for  breakfast,  such  us  Elinor  liked.  "Mont  like  as 
we'll  never  have  her  no  more — to  mind,"  she  said. 
The  gardener  sent  up  an  untidy  bundle  of  white  flow- 
ers. And  Mrs.  Dennistoun  came  herself  to  pour  out 
the  tea.  "  As  if  I  had  been  ill,  or  had  turned  into  a 
baby  again,"  Elinor  said.  But  there  was  not  much  said. 
Mary  Tatham  was  there  for  one  thing,  and  for  another 
and  the  most  important  they  had  said  all  they  had  to 
say  ;  the  rest  which  remained  could  not  be  said.  The 
wedding  was  to  be  at  a  quarter  to  twelve,  in  order  to 
give  Lady  Mariamne  time  to  come  from  town.  It  was 
not  the  fashion  then  to  delay  marriages  to  the  after- 
noon, which  no  doubt  would  have  been  much  more 
convenient  for  her  ladyship  ;  but  the  best  that  could 


TB 

be  done  \v;is  done.     Mr.  Tatbaui's  carriage,  which  he 

him  to  grace  the  ceremony,  w; 

spatched  to  the  station  to  meet  Lady  Mariaume,  while 
he,  good  man,  hod  to  get  to  church  as  he  could  in  one 
of  the  flys.     And  then  came   the   important  mo: 
when  the  dressing  of  the  bride  had  to  be  begun.     The 
wedding-breakfast   was  nor  set  out  in  perfect 

order,  and  there  were  many  things  to  do.  Yet  every 
woman  in  the  house  had  a  little  share  in  the  dressing 
of  the  bride.  They  all  came  to  see  how  it  fitted  when 
the  wedding-dress  was  put  on.  It  fitted  like  a  glove  ! 
The  long  glossy  folds  of  the  satin  were  a  wonder  to  see. 
Cook  stood  just  within  the  door  in  a  white  apron,  and 
.ind  could  not  say  a  word  to  Miss  Elinor  ;  but 
the  younger  maids  sent  forth  a  murmur  of  admiration. 
And  the  Missis  they  thought  was  almost  as  beautiful 
as  the  bride,  though  her  s-uin  was  grey.  Mrs.  Dennis- 
toun  herself  threw  the  veil  over  her  child's  head,  and 
put  in  the  diamond  star,  the  old-fashioned  ornament 
which  had  been  her  husband's  present  to  herself.  And 
then  again  she  had  meunt  to  say  something  to  Elinor — 
a  last  \yord — but  the  word  would  not  come.  They  were 
both  of  them  glad  that  somebody  should  be  there  all 
the  time,  that  they  should  not  be  left  alone.  And  after 
that  the  strange,  hurried,  everlasting  morning  was 
over,  and  the  carriage  was  at  the  door. 

a  again  it  was  a  relief  that  old  Mr.  Tatham  had 
1  his  proper  place  in  the  fly,  and  had  to  go  on 
the  front  seat  with  the  bride  and  her  mother.  It  was 
far  better  so.  If  they  had  been  left  even  for  ten  min- 
utes alone,  who  could  have  answered  that  one  or  the 
other  would  not  have  cried,  and  discomposed  the  bou- 
quet and  the  veil  ?  It  seemed  a  great  danger  and  re- 
sponsibility over  when  they  arrived  at  last  safely  at  the 
church  door.  Lady  Mariamne  was  just  then  arriving 
from  the  station.  She  drew  up  before  them  in  poor 
Mr.  Tatham's  carriage,  keeping  them  back.  Harry 
Compton  and  Mr.  Bolsover  sprang  to  the  carriage  win- 
dow to  talk  to  her,  and  there  was  a  loud  explosion  of 
mirth  and  laughter  in  the  midst  of  the  village  people, 
11 


1<>2  THE  MMUUA<;E   OF   KLISOR. 

and  the  children  with  their  baskets  of  flowers  who 
were  already  gathered.  Lady  Mariamne's  voice  burst 
out  so  shrill  that  it  overmastered  the  church  bells. 
"  Here  I  am,"  she  cried,  "  out  in  the  wilderness.  And 
Algy  has  come  with  me  to  take  cure  of  me.  And  how 
are  you,  dear  boys;  and  how  is  poor  Phil?"  '•  Phil  is 
all  ready  to  be  turned  oft',  with  the  halter  round  his 
neck,"  said  Dick  Bolsover  ;  and  Harry  Compton  said, 
"Hurry  up,  hurry  up,  Jew,  the  bride  is  behind  you, 
waiting  to  get  out."  "She  must  wait,  then,"  said  Lady 
Marianme,  and  there  came  leisurely  out  of  the  carriage, 
first,  her  ladyship's  companion,  by  nume,  Algy,  a  tall 
person  with  an  eye-glass,  then  a  little  pug,  which  was 
carefully  handed  into  his  arms,  ancl  then  lightly  jumping 
down  to  the  ground,  a  little  figure  in  black — in  black  of 
all  things  in  the  world !  a  sight  that  curdled  the  blood 
of  the  village  people,  and  of  Mrs.  Hudson,  who  had 
walked  across  from  the  Rectory  in  a  gown  of  pigeon's- 
breast  silk  which  scattered  prismatic  reflections  as  she 
walked.  In  black  !  Mrs.  Hudson  bethought  herself  that 
she  had  a  white  China  crape  shawl  in  her  cupboard,  and 
wondered  if  she  could  offer  it  to  conceal  this  ill-omened 
gown.  But  if  Lady  Mariamne's  dress  was  dark,  she 
herself  was  fair  enough,  with  an  endless  fluff  of  light 
hair  under  her  little  black  lace  bonnet.  Her  gloves 
were  off,  and  her  hands  were  white  and  glistening  with 
rings.  "Give  me  my  puggy  darling,"  she  said  in  her 
loud,  shrill  tone.  "  I  can  go  nowhere,  can  I,  pet,  with- 
out my  little  pug  !  " 

"  A  Jew  and  a  pug,  both  in  church.  It  is  enough," 
said  her  brother,  "  to  get  the  poor  parson  into  trouble 
with  his  bishop." 

"  Oh,  the  bishop's  a  great  friend  of  mine,"  said  the 
lady  ;  "  he  will  say  nothing  to  me,  not  if  I  put  Pug  in 
a  surplice  and  make  him  lead  the  choir."  At  this 
speech  there  was  a  great  laugh  of  the  assembled  party, 
which  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  path,  while  Mr. 
Tatham's  carriage  edged  away,  and  the  others  made  ef- 
forts to  get  forward.  The  noise  of  their  talk  disturbed 
'iriuus  abstraction  in  which  Elinor  had  been  going 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR.  163 

through  the  morning  hours.  Mariumne's  jarring  voice 
seemed  louder  than  the  bells.  Was  this  the  first  voice 
sent  out  to  greet  her  by  the  new  life  which  was  about 
to  begin  ?  She  glanced  at  her  mother,  and  then  at  old 
Uncle  Tathain,  who  sat  immovable,  prevented  by  de- 
corum from  apostrophising  the  coachman  who  was  not 
his  own,  but  fuming  inwardly  at  the  interruption.  Mrs. 
Dennistoun  did  not  move  at  all,  but  her  daughter  knew 
very  well  what  was  meant  by  that  look  straight  before 
her,  in  which  her  mother  seemed  to  ignore  all  obstacles 
in  the  way. 

"  I  got  here  very  well,"  Lady  Mariamne  went  on  ; 
"  we  started  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  of  course,  be- 
fore the  lamps  were  out.  Wasn't  it  good  of  Algy  to 
get  himself  out  of  bed  at  such  an  unearthly  hour  !  But 
he  snapped  at  Puggy  as  we  came  down,  which  was  a 
sign  he  felt  it.  Why  aren't  you  with  the  poor  victim 
at  the  altar,  you  boys  ?  " 

"  Phil  will  be  in  blue  funk,"  said  Harry  ;  "go  in  and 
stand  by  your  man,  Dick  :  the  Jew  has  enough  with 
two  fellows  to  see  her  into  her  place." 

The  bride's  carriage  by  this  time  pushed  forward, 
making  Lady  Mariamne  start  in  confusion.  "  Oh  !  look 
here  ;  they  have  splashed  my  pretty  toilette,  and  upset 
my  nerves,"  she  cried,  springing  back  into  her  sup- 
porter's arras. 

That  gentleman  regarded  the  stain  of  the  damp 
gravel  on  the  lady's  skirt  through  his  eye-glass  with 
deep  but  helpless  anxiety.  li  It's  a  pity  for  the  pretty 
frock  ! "  he  said  with  much  seriousness.  And  the 
group  gathered  round  and  gazed  in  dismay,  as  if  they 
expected  it  to  disappear  of  itself — until  Mrs.  Hudson 
bustled  up.  "It  will  rub  oft';  it  will  not  make  any 
mark.  If  one  of  you  gentlemen  will  lend  me  a  hand- 
kerchief," she  said.  And  Algy  and  Harry  and  Dick 
Bolsover,  not  to  speak  of  Lady  Maria  name  herself, 
watched  with  great  gravity  while  the  gravel  was  swept 
off.  "  I  make  no  doubt,"  said  the  Rector's  wife,  "  that 
I  have  the  pleasure  of  speaking  to  Lady  Mariamne  :  and 
I  don't  doubt  that  black  is  the  fashion  and  vour  dress 


IG-t  Till-]   MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR. 

is  beautiful  :  but  if  you  would  just  throw  on  a  white 
shawl  for  the  sake  of  the  Wedding — it's  so  unlucky  to 

come  in  black " 

••  A  white  shawl  !  "  said  Lady  Mariaume  in  dismay. 
"The  Jew  in  a  white  shawl  ! ''  echoed  the  others  with 
a  burst  of  laughter  which  rang  into  the  church  itself 
and  made  Phil  before  the  altar,  alone  and  very  anxious, 
ask  himself  what  was  up. 

•v  It's  China  crape,  I  assure  you,  and  very  nice,"  Mrs. 
Hudson  said. 

Lady  Mariamne  gave  the  good  Samaritan  a  stony 
stare,  and  took  Algy's  arm  and  sailed  into  the  church 
before  the  Kector's  wife,  without  a  word  said  ;  while  all 
the  women  from  the  village  looked  at  each  other  and 
said,  "  Well,  I  never  !  "  under  their  breath. 

"  Let  me  give  yon  my  arm,  Mrs.  Hudson."  said  Harry 
Compton,  "and  please  pardon  me  that  I  did  not  intro- 
duce my  sister  to  you.  She  is  dreadfully  shy,  don't 
you  know,  and  never  does  speak  to  anyone  when  she 
has  not  been  introduced." 

"  My  observation  was  a  very  simple  one,"  said  Mrs. 
Hudson,  very  angry,  yet  pleased  to  lean  upon  an  Hon- 
ourable arm. 

"  My    dear   lady  !  "    cried    the  good-natured   Harry, 

"  the  Jew  never  wore  a  shawl  in  her  life " 

And  all  this  time  the  organ   had  ling,   the 

white  vision  passing  up  the  aisle,  the  simple  vill 
chanting  forth  their  song  about  .the  breath  that  breathed 
o'er   Eden.      Alas  !  Eden  had  not  much  to  do  with   it, 
e\<vpt,   perhaps   in   the   trembling   heart  of   the   white 
maiden  roused  out  of  her  virginal  dream  by  the  jarring 
s   of   the   new   life.     The   laughter  outside   was   a 
Iful  offence  to  all  the  people,  great  and  small,  Avho 
had  collected  to  see  Elinor  married. 

"  What  could  you  expect?  It's  that  woman  whom 
they  call  the  Jew,"  whispered  Lady  Hunting-lower  to  her 
next  neighbour. 

"She  should  bo  put  into  the  stocks,"  said  Sir  John, 
scap-ely  under  his  breath,  which,  to  be  sure,  was  also 
an  interruption  to  the  decorum  of  the  place. 


US  3/JAA  l(>-r> 

And  then  there  ensued  a  pause  broken  by  the  voice, 
a  little  lugubrious  in  tone,  of  the  Rector  within  the 
altar  rails,  and  the  tremulous  answers  of  the  pair  out- 
side. The  audience  held  its  breath  to  hear  Elinor 
make  her  responses,  and  faltered  oft'  into  suppressed 
weeping  as  the  low  tones  ceased.  Sir  John  Hunting- 
tower,  who  was  very  tall  and  big,  and  stood  out  like  a 
pillar  among  the  ladies  round,  kept  nodding  his  head 
all  the  time  she  spoke,  nodding  as  you  might  do  in 
forced  assent  to  any  dreadful  vow.  Poor  little  thing, 
poor  little  thing,  he  was  saying  in  his  heart.  His  face 
was  more  like  the  face  of  a  man  at  a  funeral  than  a  man 
at  a  wedding.  "  Blessed  are  the  dead  that  die  in  the 
Lord  " — he  might  have  been  nodding  assent  to  that  in- 
stead of  to  Elinor's  low-spoken  vow.  Phil  Compton's 
voice,  to  tell  the  truth,  was  even  more  tremulous  than 
Elinor's.  To  investigate  the  thoughts  of  a  bridegroom 
would  be  too  much  curiosity  at  such  a  moment.  But  I 
think  if  the  secrets  of  the  hearts  could  be  revealed, 
Phil  for  a  moment  was  sorry  for  poor  little  Elinor 
too. 

And  then  the  solemnity  was  all  over  in  a  moment, 
and  the  flutter  of  voices  and  congratulations  began. 

I  do  not  mean  to  follow  the  proceedings  through  all 
the  routine  of  the  wedding-day.  Attempts  were  made 
on  the  part  of  the  bridegroom's  party  to  get  Lady  Mari- 
amne  dismissed  by  the  next  train,  an  endeavour  into 
which  Harry  Compton  threw  himself  —  for  he  was 
always  a  good-hearted  fellow — with  his  whole  soul. 
But  the  Jew  declared  that  she  was  dying  of  hunger, 
and  •whatever  sort  of  place  it  was,  must  have  something 
to  eat;  a  remark  which  naturally  endeared  her  still 
more  to  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  who  was  waiting  by  the.  door 
of  Mr.  Tatham's  carriage,  which  that  anxious  old 
gentleman  had  managed  to  recover  control  of,  till  her 
ladyship  had  tnken  her  place.  Her  ladyship  stared 
with  undisguised  amazement  when  she  was  followed 
into  the  carriage  by  the  bride's  mother,  and  when  the- 
neat  little  old  gentleman  took  his  seat  opposite.  "  But 
where  is  Algy  ?  I  want  Algy,"  she  cried,  in  dismay. 


166  TEE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

"  Absolutely  I  can't  go  without  ALjy,  who  came  to  take 
care  of  me." 

"  You  will  be  perfectly  safe,  my  dear  lady,  with  Mrs. 
Dennistoun  and  me.  The  gentlemen  will  walk,"  said 
Mr.  Tatham,  waving  his  hand  to  the  coachman. 

And  thus  it  was  that  the  forlorn  lady  found  herself 
without  her  cavalier  and  without  her  pug,  absolutely 
stranded  among  savages,  notwithstanding  her  strong 
protest  almost  carried  the  length  of  tears.  She  was 
thus  carried  off  in  a  state  of  consternation  to  the  cot- 
tage over  the  rough  road,  where  the  wheels  went  with  a 
din  and  lurch  over  the  stones,  and  dug  deep  into  the 
sand,  eliciting  a  succession  of  little  shrieks  from  her 
oppressed  bosom.  "  I  shall  be  shaken  all  to  bits,"  she 
said,  grasping  the  arm  of  the  old  gentleman  to  steady 
herself.  Mr.  Tatham  was  not  displeased  to  be  the 
champion  of  a  lady  of  title.  He  assured  her  in  dulcet 
tones  that  his  springs  were  very  good  and  his  horses 
very  sure — "though  it  is  not  a  very  nice  road." 

"  Oh,  it  is  a  dreadful  road  !  "  said  Lady  Mariarnne. 

But  in  due  time  they  did  arrive  at  the  cottage,  where 
her  ladyship  could  not  wait  for  the  gathering  of  the 
company,  but  demanded  at  once  something  to  eat.  "  f 
can't  really  go  another  moment  without  food.  I  must 
have  something  or  I  shall  die.  Phil,  come  here  this  in- 
stant and  get  me  something.  They  have  brought  me 
off  at  the  risk  of  my  life,  and  there's  nobody  to  at- 
tend to  me.  Don't  stand  spooning  there,"  cried  Lady 
Mariamne,  "but  do  what  I  tell  you.  Do  you  think  I 
should  ever  have  put  myself  into  this  position  but  for 
you?" 

"  You  would  never  have  been  asked  here  if  they  had 
consulted  me.  I  knew  what  a  nuisance  you'd  be.  Here, 
get  this  lady  something  to  eat,  old  man/'  said  the  bride- 
groom, tapping  Mr.  Tatham  on  the  back,  who  did, 
indeed,  look  rather  like  a  waiter  from  that  point  of 
view. 

'•  I  shall  have  to  help  myself,"  said  the  lady  in  de- 
spair. And  she  sat  down  at  the  elaborate  table  in  the 
bride's  place,  and  began  to  hack  at  the  nearest  chi; 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  167 

The  gentlemen  coming  in  at  the  moment  roared  again 
with  laughter  over  the  Jew's  impatience  ;  but  it  was  not 
regarded  with  the  same  admiration  by  the  rest  of  the 
guests. 

These  little  incidents,  perhaps,  helped  to  wile  away 
the  weary  hours  until  it  was  time  for  the  bridal  pair  to 
depart.  Mrs.  Dennistoun  was  so  angry  that  it  kept  up 
a  little  fire,  so  to  speak,  in  her  heart  when  the  light  of 
her  house  was  extinguished.  Lady  Mariamne,  standing 
in  the  porch  with  a  bag  full  of  rice  to  throw,  kept  up 
the  spirit  of  the  mistress  of  the  house,  which  otherwise 
might,  perhaps,  have  failed  her  altogether  at  that  in- 
conceivable moment ;  for  though  she  had  been  looking 
forward  to  it,  for  months  it  was  inconceivable  when  it 
came,  as  death  is  inconceivable.  Elinor  going  away  ! — 
not  on  a  visit,  or  to  be  back  in  a  week,  or  a  month,  or  a 
year — going  away  for  ever  !  ending,  as  might  be  said, 
when  she  put  her  foot  on  the  step  of  the  carriage.  Her 
mother  stood  by  and  looked  on  with  that  cruel  convic- 
tion that  overtakes  all  at  the  last.  Up  to  this  moment 
had  it  not  seemed  as  if  the  course  of  affairs  was  unreal, 
as  if  something  must  happen  to  prevent  it?  Perhaps 
the  world  will  end  to-night,  as  the  lover  says  in  the 
"  Last  Ride."  But  now  here  was  the  end  :  nothing  had 
happened,  the  world  was  swinging  on  in  space  in  its 
old  careless  way,  and  Elinor  was  going — going  away 
for  ever  and  ever.  Oh,  to  come  back,  perhaps — there 
was  nothing  against  that — but  never  the  same  Elinor. 
The  mother  stood  looking,  with  her  hand  over  her  eyes 
to  shield  them  from  the  sun.  Those  eyes  were  quite 
dry,  and  she  stood  firm  and  upright  by  the  carriage 
door.  She  was  not  "  breaking  down  "  or  "giving  way," 
as  everybody  feared.  She  was  "bearing  up,"  as  every- 
body was  relieved  to  see.  And  in  a  moment  it  was  all 
over,  and  there  was  nothing  before  her  eyes — no  car- 
riage, no  Elinor.  She  was  so  dazed  that  she  stood  still, 
looking  with  that  strange  kind  of  smile  for  a  full  min- 
ute after  there  was  nothing  to  smile  at,  only  the  vacant 
air  and  the  prospect  of  the  combe,  coming  in  in  a  sickly 
haze  which  existed  only  in  her  eyes. 


168  THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR. 

But,  by  good  luck,  there  was  Lady  Marianine  behind, 
and  the  fire  of  indignation  giving  a  red  flicker  upon  the 
desolate  hearth. 

'•I  caught  Phil  on  the  nose,"  said  that  lady,  in  great 
triumph;  "spoilt  his  beauty  for  him  for  to-day.  But 
let's  hope  she  won't  mind.  She  thinks  him  beautiful, 
the  little  goose.  Oh,  iuy  Puggy-wuggy,  did  that  cruel 
Algy  pull  your  little,  dear  tail,  you  darling?  Come  to 
oos  own  mammy,  now  those  silly  wedding  people  are 
away." 

"  Your  little  dog,  I  presume,  is  of  a  very  rare  sort," 
said  Mr.  Tathamfto  be  civil.  He  had  proposed  the 
bride  and  bridegroom's  health  in  a  most  appropriate 
speech,  and  he  felt  that  he  had  deserved  well  of  his 
kind,  which  made  him  more  amiable  even  than  usual. 
"Your  ladyship's  little  dog,"  he  added,  after  a  moment, 
as  she  did  not  take  any  notice,  "  I  presume,  is  of  a  rare 
kind?" 

Lady  Marianine  gave  him  a  look,  or  rather  a  stare. 
"  Is  Puggy  of  a  rare  sort?  "  she  said  over  her  shoulder, 
to  one  of  the  attendant  tribe. 

"Don't  be  such  a  duffer,  Jew  !  You  know  as  well  as 
any  one  what,  breed  he's  of,"  Harry  Cornpton  said. 

'"  Oh,  I  forgot,"  said  the  line  lady.  She  was  standing 
full  in  front  of  the  entrance,  keeping  Mrs.  Dennistoun 
ill  the  full  sun  outside.  "  I  hope  there's  a  train  very 
soon,"  she  said.  "Did  you  look,  Algy,  as  I  told  you? 
If  it  hadn't  been  that  Phil  would  have  killed  me  I 
should  have  gone  now.  It,  would  have  been  such  fun  to 
have  spied  upon  the  turtle  doves  !  " 

The  men  thought  it  would  have  been  rare  fun  with 
obedient  delight,  but  that  Pbil  would  have  cut  up 
rough,  and  made  a  scene.  At  this  Lady  Mariamne  held 
up  her  linger,  and  made  a  portf-ntous  face. 

"Oh,  you  naughty,  naughty  boy,"  she  cried,  "telling 
tales  out  of  school." 

••  Perhaps,  my  dear  lady,"  said  Mr.  Tatham,  quietly, 
"you  would  lot  Mrs.  Dennistoun  pass." 

••  <  )ii  !  "  s'lid  Lady  Mariamne,  and  stared  at  him  again 
for  half  a  minute  ;  then  she  turned  and  stared  at  the 


TITS  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  169 

s 

tall  lady  in  grey  satin.     "Anybody  can  pass,"  she  said  : 
"  I'm  not  so  very  big." 

"  That  is  quite  true — quite  true.  There  is  plenty  of 
room,"  said  the  little  gentleman,  holding  out  his  hand 
to  his  cousin. 

"My  dear  John,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  "I  am  sure 
you  will  be  kind  enough  to  lend  your  carriage  again  to 
Lady  Mariumne,  who  is  in  a  hurry  to  get  away.  There 
is  another  train,  which  stops  at  Downforth  station,  in 
half  an  hour,  and  there  will  just  be  time  to  get  there,  if 
you  will  order  it  at  once.  I  told  your  man  to  be  in 
readiness :  and  it  would  be  a  thousand  pities  to  lose 
this  train,  for  there  is  not  another  for  an  hour." 

"  By  Jove,  Jew  !  there's  a  slap  in  the  face  for  you," 
said,  in  an  audible  whisper,  one  of  the  train,  who  had 
been  standing  in  front  of  all  the  friends,  blocking  out 
the  view.  As  for  Lady  Mariainne,  she  stared  more 
straight  than  ever  into  Mrs.  Dennistoun's  eyes,  but  for 
tho  moment  did  not  seem  to  find  anything  to  say.  She 
was  left  in  the  hall  with  her  band  while  the  mistress  of 
the  house  went  into  the  drawing-room,  followed  by  all 
the  country  ladies,  who  had  not  lost  a  word,  and  who 
were  already  whispering  to  each  other  over  that  terrible 
betrayal  about  the  temper  of  Phil. 

"Gut  up  rough  !  Oh  !  poor  little  Elinor,  poor  little 
Elinor !  "  the  ladies  said  to  each  other  under  their 
breath. 

"  I  am  not  at  all  surprised.  It  is  not  any  news  to 
me.  You  could  see  it  in  his  eyes,"  said  Miss  Mary 
Dale.  And  then  they  all  were  silent  to  listen  to  the  re- 
newed laughter  that  came  bursting  from  the  hall.  Mrs, 
Hudson  questioned  her  husband  afterwards  as  to  what 
it  was  that  made  everybody  laugh,  but  the  Rector  had 
not  much  to  say.  "I  really  could  not  tell  you,  my 
dear,"  he  said.  "I  don't  remember  anything  that  was 
said — but  it  seemed  funny  somehow,  and  as  they  all 
laughed  one  had  to  laugh  too." 

The  great  lady  came  in;  however,  dragged  by  her 
brother  to  say  good-by.  "It  has  all  gone  off  very  well, 
I  am  sure,  and  Nell  looked  very  nice,  and  did  you 


170  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

great  credit,"  she  said,  putting  out  her  hand.  "  And 
it's  very  kind  of  you  to  take  so  much  trouble  to  get  us 
off  by  the  first  train." 

"Oh,  it  is  no  trouble,"  Mrs.  Dennistoun  said. 

"Shouldn't  you  like  to  say  good-by  to  Puggy- 
muggy?"  said  Lady  Mariamne,  touching  the  little 
black  nose  upon  her  arm.  "  He  enjoyed  thatj> 
much.  He  really  never  has /we  gras  at  home  :  but  he 
doesn't  at  all  mind  if  you  would  like  to  give  him  a  lit- 
tle kiss  just  here." 

"  Good-by,  Lady  Mariamne,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun, 
with  one  of  the  curtseys  of  the  old  school.  But  there 
was  another  gust  of  laughter  as  Lady  Mariamne  was 
placed  in  the  carriage,  and  a  shrill  little  trumpet  gave 
forth  the  satisfaction  of  the  departing  guest  at  having 
"  got  a  rise  out  of  the  old  girl."  The  gentlemen  heaped 
themselves  into  Mr.  Tatham's  carriage,  and  swept  off 
along  with  her,  all  but  civil  Harry,  who  waited  to  make 
their  apologies,  and  to  put  up  along  with  his  own  Dick 
Bolsover's  "things."  And  thus  the  bridegroom's  party, 
the  new  associates  of  Elinor,  the  great  family  into 
which  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Phil  Compton  had  been  so 
lucky  as  to  marry,  to  the  great  excitement  of  all  the 
country  round,  departed  and  was  seen  no  more.  Harry, 
who  was  civil,  walked  home  with  the  Hudsons  when  all 
was  over,  and  said  the  best  he  could  for  the  Jew  and 
her  friends.  "  You  see,  she  has  been  regularly  spoiled  : 
and  then  when  a  girl's  so  dreadful  shy,  as  often  as  not 
it  sounds  like  impudence."  "Dear  me,  I  should  never 
have  thought,  Lady  Mariamne  was  shy,"  the  gentle  Rec- 
tor said.  ';  That's  just  how  it  is,"  said  Harry.  He  went 
over  again  in  the  darkening  to  take  his  leave  of  Mrs. 
Dennistoun.  He  found  her  sitting  out  in  the  garden 
before  the  open  door,  looking  down  the  misty  walk. 
The  light  had  gone  out  of  the  skies,  but  the  usual 
cheerful  lights  had  not  yet  appeared  in  the  house, 
where  the  hum  of  a  great  occasion  still  reigned.  The 
Tathams  were  at,  the  Rectory,  and  Mrs.  Dennistoun  was 
alone.  Harry  Compton  had  a  good  heart,  and  though 
he  could  not  conceive  the  possibility  of  a  woman  not 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  171 

being  glad  to  have  married  her  daughter,  the  loneliness 
and  darkness  touched  him  a  little  in  contrast  with  the 
gayety  of  the  previous  night.  "You  must  think  us  a 
dreadful  noisy  lot,"  he  said,  "  and  as  if  my  sister  had 
no  sense.  But  it's  only  the  Jew's  way.  She's  made 
like  that — and  at  bottom  she's  not  at  all  a  bad  sort." 

"  Are  you  going  away  ? "  was  all  the  answer  that 
Mrs.  Deunistoun  made. 

"  Oh,  yes,  and  we  shall  be  a  good  riddance,"  said 
Hairy  ;  "  but  please  don't  think  any  worse  of  us  than 

you  can  help Phil — well,  he's  got  a  great  deal  of 

good  in  him — he  has  indeed,  and  she'll  bring  it  all 
out." 

It  was  very  good  of  Harry  Compton.  He  had  a  little 
choking  in  his  throat  as  he  walked  back.  "  Blest  if  I 
ever  thought  of  it  in  that  light  before,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. 

But  I  doubt  if  what  ho  said,  however  well  meant, 
brought  much  comfort  to  Mrs.  Dennistoun's  heart 


CHAPTER  XVH. 

Tiirs  Elinor  Dennistoun  disappeared  from  Windy- 
hill  and  was  no  more  seen.  There  are  many  ways  in 
which  a  marriage  is  almost  like  a  death,  especially  when 
the  marriage  is  that  of  an  only  child.  The  young  go 
away,  the  old  remain.  There  is  all  the  dreary  routine 
of  the  solitary  life  unbrightened  by  that  companionship 
which  is  all  the  world  to  the  one  who  is  left  behind. 
So  little — only  the  happy  going  away  into  brighter 
scenes  of  one  whose  happiness  was  the  whole  thought 
of  that  dreary  survivor  at  the  chimney  corner — and  yet 
so  much.  And  if  that  survivor  is  a  woman  she  has  to 
smile  and  tell  her  neighbours  of  the  bride's  happiness, 
and  how  great  the  comfort  to  herself  that  her  Elinor's 
life  is  assured,  and  her  own  ending  is  now  of  no  partic- 
ular importance  to  her  daughter ;  if  it  is  a  man,  he  is 


IT -3  THE  MAUHIM;/-:  or  KLTXOR. 

allowed  to  lament,  which  is  a  ciirions  paradox,  but  one 
of  the  many  current  in  this  world.  Mrs.  Dennistoun 
had  to  put  a  very  brave  face  upon  it  all  the  more  because 
of  the  known  unsatisfactoriness  of  Elinor's  husband  : 
and  she  had  to  go-on  with  her  life,  and  sit  down  at  her 
solitary  meals,  and  invent  lonely  occupations  for  her- 
self, and  read  and  read,  till  her  brains  were  often  dazed 
by  the  multiplicity  of  the  words,  which  lost  their 
meaning  as  she  turned  over  page  by  page.  To  sit 
alone  in  the  house,  without  a  sound  audible,  except 
perhaps  the  movement  of  the  servants  going  tip-stairs 
or  down  to  minister  to  the  wants,  about  which  she  felt 
she  cared  nothing  whether  they  were  ministered  to  or 
not,  of  their  solitary  mistress,  where  a  little  while  ago 
there  used  to  be  the  rhythm  of  the  one  quick  step,  the 
sound  of  the  one  gay  voice  which  made  the  world  a 
warm  inhabited  place  to  Mrs.  Dennistoun — this  was 
more  dismal  than  words  could  say.  To  be  sure,  there 
were  some  extraordinary  and  delightful  differences  ; 
there  were  the  almost  daily  letters,  which  afforded  the 
lonely  mother  all  the  pleasure  that  life  could  give  ;  and 
there  was  always  the  prospect,  or  at  least  possibility 
and  hope,  of  seeing  her  child  again.  Those  two  partic- 
ulars, it  need  scarcely  be  said,  make  a  difference  which 
is  practically  infinite:  but  yet  for  Mrs.  Dennistoun.  sit- 
ting alone  all  the  day  and  night,  walking  alone,  read- 
ing alone,  with  little  to  do  that  was  of  the  slu 
consequence,  not  even  the  reading — for  what,  did  it 
matter  to  her  dreary,  lonely  consciousness  whether  she 
kept  afloat  of  general  literature  or  improv.il  her  mind 
or  not?  this  separation  by  marriage  was  dreadfully 
like  the  dreary  separation  by  death,  and  in  one  re 
it  was  almost  worse ;  for  death,  if  it  reaches  our  very 
hearts,  takes  away  at  least  the  gnawing  pangs  of  anx- 
iety. He  or  she  who  is  gone  that  way  is  well  ;  never 
more  can  trouble  touch  them,  their  feet  cannot  err  nor 
their  hearts  ache  ;  while  who  can  tell  what  troubles  and 
i.e  befalling,  out  there  in  the  unknown, 
the  child  who  has  embarked  upon  the  troubled  sea  of 
mortal  life  ? 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  173 

And  it  may  be  imagined  with  what  anxious  eyes 
those  letters,  which  made  all  the  difference,  were  read  ; 
how  the  gradually  changing  tone  in  them  was  noted  as 
it  came  in,  slowly  but  also  surely.  Sometimes  they  got 
to  be  very  hurried,  and  then  Mrs.  Dennistoun  saw  as  in 
a  glass  the  impatient  husband  waiting,  wondering  what 
she  could  constantly  find  to  say  to  her  mother  ;  sorne- 
8  they  were  long  and  detailed,  and  that  meant,  as 
would  appear  perhaps  by  a  phrase  slurred  over  in  the 
postscript,  that  Phil  had  gone  away  somewhere.  There 
was  never  a  complaint  in  them,  never  a  word  that  could 
be  twisted  into  a  complaint :  but  the  anxious  mother 
read  between  the  lines  innumerable  things,  not  half  of 
them  true.  There  is  perhaps  never  a  half  true  of  what 
anxiety  may  imagine  :  but  then  the  half  that  is  true  ! 

John  Tatham  was  very  faithful  to  her  during  that 
winter.  As  soon  as  he  came  back  from  Switzerland,  at 
the  end  of  the  long  vacation,  he  went  down  to  see  her, 
feeling  the  difference  in  the  house  beyond  anything  he 
had  imagined,  feeling  as  if  he  were  stepping  into  some 
darkened  outer  chamber  of  the  grave  :  but  with  a 
cheerful  face  and  eager  but  confident  interest  in  "  the 
news  from  Elinor."  "  Of  course  she  is  enjoying  her- 
self immensely,"  he  said,  and  Mrs.  Dennistoun  was  able 
to  reply  with  a  smile  that  was  a  little  wistful,  that  yes, 
Elinor  was  enjoying  herself  immensely.  "She  seems 
very  happy,  and  everything  is  new  to  her  and  bright," 
she  said.  They  were  both  very  glad  that  Elinor  was 
happy,  and  they  were  very  cheerful  themselves.  Mrs. 
Dennistoun  truly  cheered  by  his  visit  and  by  the  neces- 
sity for  looking  after  everything  that  John  might  be 
comfortable,  and  the  pleasure  of  seeing  his  face  oppo- 
site to  her  at  table.  "You  can't  think  what  it  is  to 
see  you  there ;  sitting  down  to  dinner  is  the  most  hor- 
rible farce  when  one  is  alone."  "  Poor  aunt !  "  John 
Tatham  said  :  and  nobody  would  believe  how  many  Sat- 
urdays and  Sundays  he  gave  up  to  her  during  the  long 
winter.  Somehow  he  himself  did  not  care  to  go  any- 
where else.  In  Elinor's  time  he  had  gone  about  freely 
enough,  liking  a  little  variety  in  his  Saturday  to  Mon« 


Tin-:  jrAfiitrAVE  or  KLINOR. 

days,  though  always  happiest  when  he  went  to  Windy- 
hill  :  but  now  somehow  the  other  houses  seemed  to 
pull  upon  him.  He  liked  best  to  go  down  to  that  mel- 
ancholy house  which  his  presence  made  more  or  less 
bright,  where  there  was  an  endless  talk  of  Elinor, 
where  she  was,  what  she  was  doing,  and  what  was  to 
be  her  next  move,  and,  at  last,  when  she  WHS  coming  to 
town.  Mrs.  Deunistoun  did  not  say,  as  she  did  at  first, 
"when  she  is  coming  home."  That  possibility  seemed 
to  slip  away  somehow,  and  no  one  suggested  it.  When 
she  was  coming  to  town,  that  was  what  they  said  be- 
tween themselves.  She  had  spent  the  spring  on  the 
Biviera,  a  great  part  of  it  at  Monte  Carlo,  and  her  let- 
ters were  full  of  the  beauty  of  the  place  ;  but  she  said 
less  and  less  about  people,  and  more  and  more 
about,  the  sea  and  the  mountains,  and  the  glorious  road 
which  gave  at  every  turn  a  new  and  beautiful  vision  of 
the  hills  and  the  sea.  It  was  a  little  like  a  guide-book, 
they  sometimes  felt,  but  neither  said  it ;  but  at  last  it 
became  certain  that  in  the  month  of  May  she  was  com- 
ing to  town. 

More  than  that,  oh,  more  than  that!  One  evening 
in  May,  when  it  was  fine  but  a  little  chilly,  when  Mrs. 
Denrtistoun  was  walking  wistfully  in  her  garden,  look- 
ing at  the  moon  shining  in  the  west,  and  wondering  if 
her  child  had  arrived  in  England,  and  whether  she  was 
coming  to  a  house  of  her  own,  or  a  lodging,  or  to  be  a 
visitor  iu  some  one  else's  house,  details  which  Elinor 
had  not  given — her  ear  was  suddenly  caught  by  the  dis- 
tant rumbling  of  wheels,  heavy  wheels,  the  fly  from  the 
station  certainly.  Mrs.  Dennistoun  had  no  expecta- 
tion of  what  it  could  be,  no  sort  of  hope :  and  yet  a 
woman  has  always  a  sort  of  hope  when  her  child  lives 
and  everything  is  possible.  The  fly  seemed  to  stop,  not 
coining  up  the  little  cottage  drive;  but  by  and  by, 
when  she  had  almost  given  up  hoping,  there  came  a 
rush  of  living  feet,  and  a  cry  of  joy,  and  Elinor  was  in 
her  mother's  arms.  Elinor!  yes,  it  was  herself,  no  vis- 
ion, no  shadow  such  as  had  many  a  time  come  into  Mrs. 
Deuuistoun's  dreams,  but  herself  iu  flesh  and  blood, 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  175 

the  clear  familiar  figure,  the  face  which,  between  the 
twilight  and  those  ridiculous  tears  which  come  when 
one  is  too  happy,  could  scarcely  be  seen  at  all.  "  Eli- 
nor, Elinor  !  it  is  you,  my  darling  !  "  "  Yes,  mother,  it 
is  me,  really  me.  I  could  not  write,  because  I  did  not 
know  till  the  last  minute  whether  I  could  get  away." 

It  may  be  imagined  what  a  coming  home  that  was. 
Mrs.  Dennistouu,  when  she  saw  her  daughter  even  by 
the  light  of  the  lamp,  was  greatly  comforted.  Elinor 
was  looking  well  ;  she  was  changed  in  that  indescriba- 
ble way  in  which  marriage  changes  (though  not  always) 
the  happiest  woman.  And  her  appearance  was 
changed  ;  she  was  no  longer  the  country  young  lady 
very  well  dressed  and  looking  as  well  as  any  one  could 
in  her  carefully  made  clothes.  She  was  now  a  fashion- 
able young  woman,  about  whose  dresses  there  was  no 
question,  who  wore  everything  as  those  do  who  are  at 
the  fountain-head,  no  matter  what  it  was  she  wore. 
Mrs.  Deunistoun's  eyes  caught  this  difference  at  once, 
which  is  also  indescribable  to  the  uninitiated,  and  a 
sensation  of  pride  came  into  her  mind.  Elinor  was  im- 
proved, too,  in  so  many  ways.  Her  mother  had  never 
thought  of  calling  her  anything  more,  even  in  her  in- 
most thoughts,  than  very  pretty,  very  sweet  ;  but  it 
seemed  to  Mrs.  Dennistoun  now  as  if  people  might  use 
a  stronger  word,  and  call  Elinor  beautiful.  Her  face 
had  gained  a  great  deal  of  expression,  thqugh  it  was 
always  an  expressive  face  ;  her  eyes  looked  deeper  ; 
her  manner  had  a  wonderful  youthful  dignity.  Alto- 
gether, it  was  another  Elinor,  yet,  God  be  praised,  the 
same. 

It  was  but  for  one  night,  but  that  was  a  great  deal,  a 
night  subtracted  from  the  blank,  a  night  that  seemed 
to  come  out  of  the  old  times — those  old  times  that  had 
not  been  known  to  be  so  very  happy  till  they  were  over 
and  gone.  Elinor  had  naturally  a  great  deal  to  tell  her 
mother,  but  in  the  glory  of  seeing  her,  of  hearing  her 
voice,  of  knowing  that  it  was  actually  she  who  was 
speaking,  Mrs.  Dennistoun  did  not  observe,  what  she 
remembered  afterwards,  that  again  it  was  much  more 


170  THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELIX>.- 

of  places  than  of  people  that  Elinor  talked,  ami  that 
though  she  named  Phil  when  there  \vas  any  occasion 
for  doing  so,  she  did  not  babble  about  him  as  brides 
do,  as  if  he  were  altogether  the  sun,  and  everything 
revolved  round  him.  Jt  is  not  a  good  sign,  perhaps, 
when  the  husband  conies  down  to  his  "proper  place" 
as  the  representative  of  the  other  half  of  the  world  too 
soon.  Elinor  looked  round  upon  her  old  home  with  a 
mingled  smile  and  sigh.  Undoubtedly  it  had  grown 
smaller,  perhaps  even  shabbier,  since  she  went  away  : 
but  she  did  not  say  so  to  her  mother.  She  cried  out 
how  pretty  it  was,  how  delightful  to  come  back  to  it ! 
and  that  was  true  too.  How  often  it  happens  in  this 
life  that  there  are  two  things  quite  opposed  to  each 
other,  and  yet  both  of  them  true. 

"John  will  be  delighted  to  hear  that  you  have  come, 
Elinor,"  her  mother  said. 

"  John,  dear  old  John !  I  hope  he  is  well  and  happy, 
and  all  that;  and  he  comes  often  to  see  you,  mother? 
How  sweet  of  him  !  You  must  give  him  ever  so  much 
love  from  his  poor  Nelly.  I  always  keep  that  name 
sacred  to  him." 

"But  why  should  I  give  him  messages  as  if  you  were 
not  sure  to  meet?  of  course  you  will  meet — ol 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  Elinor.  She  opened  her 
eyes  a  little  in  surprise,  and  then  shook  her  head.  "I 
am  afraid  not,  mamma.  We  are  in  two  different 
worlds." 

"  I  assure  you,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  "John  is  a 
very  rising  man.  He  is  invited  everywhere." 

"That  I  don't  doubt  at  all." 

"  And  why  then  shouldn't  you  meet?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  fancy  we  shall  go  to  the 
same  places.  John  has  a  profession  ;  he  has  something 
to  do.  Now  you  know  we  have  nothing  to  do." 

She  laughed  and  laid  a  little  emphasis  on  the  we,  by 
way  of  taking  off  the  weight  of  the  words. 

"I  always  thought  it  was  a  great  pity,  Elinor." 

"  It  may  be  a  pity  or  not,"  said  Elinor,,  "but  it  is, 
and  it  cannot  be  helped.  We  have  got  to  make  up  our 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR,  177 

minds  to  it.  I  would  rather  Phil  did  nothing  than 
mixed  himself  up  with  companies.  Thank  heaven,  at 
present  he  is  free  of  anything  of  that  kind." 

"  I  hope  he  is  free  of  that  one  at  least,  that  he  was 
going  to  invest  all  your  money  in,  Elinor.  I  hope  you 
found  another  investment  that  was  quite  steady  and 
safe. " 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Elinor,  with  some  of  her 
old  petulance  :  "  don't  let  us  spoil  the  little  time  I  have 
by  talking  about  money,  mamma  !  " 

And  then  it  was  that  Mrs.  Dennistoun  noticed  that 
what  Elinor  did  talk  of,  hurrying  away  from  this  sub- 
ject, were  things  of  not  the  least  importance — the  olive 
woods  on  the  Riviera,  the  wealth  of  flowers,  the  strange 
little  old  towns  upon  the  hills.  Surely  even  the  money, 
which  was  her  own  and  for  her  comfort,  would  be  a 
more  interesting  subject  to  discuss.  Perhaps  Elinor 
herself  perceived  this,  for  she  began  immediately  to  ask 
questions  about  the  Hudsons  and  Hills,  and  all  the  peo- 
ple of  the  parish,  with  much  eagerness  of  questioning, 
but  a  flagging  interest  in  the  replies,  as  her  mother 
soon  saw.  "  And  Mary  Dale,  is  she  still  there  ?  "  she 
asked.  Mrs.  Dennistoun  entered  into  a  little  history 
of  how  Mary  Dale  had  gone  away  to  nurse  a  distant 
cousin  who  had  been  ill,  and  finally  had  died  and  left  a 
very  comfortable  little  fortune  to  her  kind  attendant. 
Elinor  listened  with  little  nods  and  appropriate  excla- 
mations, but  before  the  evening  was  out  asked  again, 
"  And  Mary  Dale  ?  "  then  hastily  corrected  herself  with 
an  "  Oh,  I  remember  !  you  told  me."  But  it  was  per- 
haps safer  not  to  question  her  how  much  she  remem- 
bered of  what  she  had  been  told. 

Thus  there  were-  notes  of  disquiet  in  even  that  de- 
lightful evening,  such  a  contrast  as  it  was  to  all  the 
evenings  since  she  had  left  home.  Even  when  John 
came,  what  a  poor  substitute  for  Elinor  !  The  ingrati- 
tude of  those  whose  heart  is  set  on  one  object  made 
Mrs.  Dennistoun  thus  make  light  of  what  had  been  her 
great  consolation.  He  was  very  kind,  very  good,  and 
oh,  how  glad  she  had  been  to  see  him  through  that  heavy 
12 


178  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

winter — but  he  was  not  Elinor  !  It  was  enough  for 
Elinor  to  step  across  her  mother's  threshold  to  make 
Mrs.  Dennistoun  feel  that  there  was  no  substitute  for 
her — none :  and  that  John  was  of  no  more  consequence 
than  the  Rector  or  any  habitual  caller.  But,  at  the 
same  time,  in  all  the  melody  of  the  home-coming,  in  the 
sweetness  of  Elinor's  voice,  and  look,  and  kiss,  in  the 
perfection  of  seeing  her  there  again  in  her  own  place, 
and  listening  to  her  dear  step  running  up  and  down 
the  no  longer  silent  house,  there  were  notes  of  disquiet 
which  could  not  be  mistaken.  She  was  not  unhappy, 
the  mother  thought  ;  her  eyes  could  not  be  so  bright, 
nor  her  colour  so  fair  unless  she  was  hnppy.  Trouble 
does  not  embellish,  and  Elinor  was  embellished.  But 
yet — there  were  notes  of  disquiet  in  the  air. 

Next  day  Mrs.  Deunistouu  drove  her  child  to  the 
railway  in  order  not  to  lose  a  moment  of  so  short  a 
visit,  and  naturally,  though  she  had  received  that  unex- 
pected visit  with  rapture,  feeling  that  a  whole  night 
of  Elinor  was  worth  a  month,  a  year  of  anybody  else, 
yet  now  that  Elinor  was  going  she  found  it  very  short. 
"You'll  come  again  soon,  my  darling  V"  she  said,  as 
she  stood  at  the  window  of  the  carriage  ready  to  say 
good-bye. 

"Whenever  I  can,  mother  dear,  of  that  you  may  be 
sure  ;  whenever  I  can  get  away." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  draw  you  from  your  husband. 
Don't  get  away — come  with  Philip  from  .Saturday  to 
Monday.  Give  him  my  love,  and  tell  him  so.  He 
shall  not  be  bored  ;  but  Sunday  is  a  day  without  en- 
gagements." 

"Oh,  not  now,  mamma.  There  are  just  as  many 
things  to  do  on  Sundays  as  on  any  other  day." 

There  were  a  great  many  words  on  Mrs.  Dennistouu's 
lip.s,  but  she  did  not  say  them  ;  all  she  did  say  was, 
'•  Well,  then,  Elinor — when  you  can  get  away." 

"Oh,  you  need  not  doubt  me,  mamma."  And  the 
train,  which  sometimes  lingers  so  long,  which  some 
people  that  very  day  were  .swearing  at  as  so  slow, 
"Like  all  country  trains,"  they  said — that  inevitable 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELIXOR.  179 

heartless  thing  got  into  motion,  and  Mrs.  Dennistoun 
watched  it  till  it  disappeared ;  and — what  was  that 
that  came  over  Elinor's  face  as  she  sank  back  into  the 
corner  of  her  carriage,  not  knowing  her  mother's 
anxious  look  followed  her  still — what  was  it  ?  Oh, 
dreadful,  dreadful  life  !  oh,  fruitless  love  and  longing  ! 
— was  it  relief?  The  mother  tried  to  get  that  look  out 
of  her  mind  as  she  drove  silently  and  slowly  home, 
creeping  up  hill  after  hill.  There  was  no  need  to 
hurry.  All  that  she  was  going  to  was  an  empty  and 
silent  house,  where  nobody  awaited  her.  What  was 
that  look  on  Elinor's  face  ?  Relief !  to  have  it  over,  to 
get  away  again,  away  from  her  old  home  and  her  fond 
mother,  away  to  her  new  life.  Mrs.  Dennistoun  was 
not  a  jealous  mother  nor  unreasonable.  She  said  to 
herself — Well !  it  was  no  doubt  a  trial  to  the  child  to 
come  back — to  come  alone.  All  the  time,  perhaps,  she 
was  afraid  of  being  too  closely  questioned,  of  having  to 
confess  that  h%  did  not  want  to  come,  perhaps  grudged 
her  coming.  She  might  be  afraid  that  her  mother 
would  divine  something — some  hidden  opposition, 
some  dislike,  perhaps,  on  his  part.  Poor  Elinor!  and 
when  everything  had  passed  over  so  well,  when  it  was 
ended,  and  nothing  had  been  between  them  but  love 
and  mutual  understanding,  what  wonder  if  there  came 
over  her  dear  face  a  look  of  relief  !  This  was  how  this 
good  woman,  who  had  seen  a  great  many  things  in 
her  passage  through  life,  explained  her  child's  look  : 
and  though  she  was  sad  was  not  angry,  as  many  less 
tolerant  and  less  far-seeing  might  have  been  in  her 
place. 

John,  that  good  John,  to  whom  she  had  been  so  un- 
grateful, came  down  next  Saturday,  and  to  him  she 
confided  her  great  news,  but  not  all  of  it.  "  She  came 
down — alone?  "  he  said. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  bravely  ;  "she  knew 
very  well  it  was  her  I  wanted  to  see,  and  not  Philip. 
They  say  a  great  deal  about  mothers-in-law,  but  why 
shouldn't  we  in  our  turn  have  our  fling  at  sons-in-law. 
John  ?  It  was  not  him  I  wanted  to  see :  it  was  my 


180  THK   IfAItRIAGR  OF  ELINOR. 

own  child  :  and  Elinor  understood  that,  and  ran  off  by 
herself.  Bless  her  for  the  thought." 

"  I  understand  that,"  said  John.  He  had  given  the 
mother  more  than  one  look  as  she  spoke,  and  divined 
her  better  than  she  supposed.  "  Oh,  yes,  I  can  under- 
stand that.  The  thing  I  don't  understand  is  why  he 
let  her  ;  why  he  wasn't  too  proud  to  bring  her  back  to 
you,  that  you  might  see  she  had  taken  no  harm.  If  it 
had  been  I " 

"Ah,  but  it  was  not  you,"  said  Mrs.  Deunistoun  ; 
"you  forget  that.  It  never  could  have  been  you." 

He  looked  quickly  at  her  again,  and  it  was  on  his 
lips  to  ask,  "  Why  could  it  never  have  been  I  ?  "  but  he 
did  not ;  for  he  knew  that  if  it  had  ever  been  him,  it 
could  not  have  been  for  years.  He  was  too  prudent, 
and  Elinor,  even  if  she  had  escaped  Phil  Compton, 
would  have  met  some  one  else.  He  had  no  right  to 
say,  or  even  think,  what,  in  the  circumstances,  he 
would  have  done.  He  did  not  make  any  answer,  but 
she  understood  him  as  he  understood  her. 

And  later  in  the  evening  she  asked  his  advice  as  to 
what  she  should  do.  "I  am  not  fond  of  asking  advice," 
she  said,  "and  I  don't  think  there  is  another  in  the 
world  I  would  ask  it  from  but  you.  What  should  I 
do  ?  It  would  cost  me  nothing  to  run  up  to  town  for  a 
part  of  the  season  at  least.  I  might  get  a  little  house, 
and  be  near  her,  where  she  could  come  to  me  when 
she  pleased.  Should  I  do  it,  or  would  it  be  wise  not  to 
do  it  ?  I  don't  want  to  spy  upon  her  or  to  force  her  to 
tell  me  more  than  she  wishes.  John,  my  deai',  I  will 
tell  you  what  I  would  tell  no  one  else.  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her  dear  face  when  the  train  was  just  going 
out  of  sight,  and  she  was  sinking  back  in  her  corner 
with  a  look  of  relief " 

"  Of  relief !  "  he  cried. 

"  John,  don't  form  any  false  impression  !  it  was  no 
want  of  love :  but  I  think  she  was  thankful  to  have 
seen  me,  and  to  have  satisfied  me,  and  that  I  had  asked 
no  questions  that  she  could  not  answer — in  away." 

John   clenched    his    fist,  but    he  dared    not    make 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELIXOR.  1S1 

any  gesture  of  disgust,  or  suggest  again,  "  If  it  bad 
been  I." 

"  Well,  now,"  she  said,  "remember  I  am  not  angry 
— fancy  being  angry  with  Elinor  ! — and  all  I  mean  is 
for  her  benefit.  Should  I  go  ?  it  might  be  a  relief  to 
her  to  run  into  me  whenever  she  pleased  ;  or  should  I 
not  go  ?  lest  she  might  think  I  was  bent  on  finding  out 
more  than  she  chose  to  tell  ?  " 

"'  Wouldn't  it  be  right  that  you  should  find  out  ?  " 

"  That  is  just  the  point  upon  which  I  am  doubtful. 
She  is  not  unhappy,  for  she  is — she  is  prettier  than  evei 
she  was,  John.  A  girl  does  not  get  like  that— her  eyes 
brighter,  her  colour  clearer,  looking — well,  beautiful !  " 
cried  the  mother,  her  eyes  filling  with  bright  tears,  "  if 
she  is  unhappy.  But  there  may  be  things  that  are  not 
quite  smooth,  that  she  might  think  it  would  make  me 
unhappy  to  know,  yet  that  if  let  alone  might  come  all 
right.  Tell  me,  John,  what  should  I  do  ?  " 

And  they  sat  debating  thus  till  far  on  in  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XVni. 

MHS.  DEXXISTOUN  did  not  go  up  to  town.  There  art 
some  women  who  would  have  done  so,  seeing  the  other 
side  of  the  subject — at  all  hazards  ;  and  perhaps  they 
would  have  been  right — who  can  tell  ?  She  did  not — 
denying  herself,  keeping  herself  by  main  force  in  her 
solitude,  not  to  interfere  with  the  life  of  her  child, 
which  was  drawn  on  lines  so  different  from  any  of  hers 
— and  perhaps  she  was  wrong.  Who  knows,  except  by 
the  event,  which  is  the  best  or  the  worst  way  in  any  of 
our  human  movements,  which  are  so  short-sighted  ? 
And  twice  during  the  season  Elinor  found  means  to 
come  to  the  cottage  for  a  night  as  she  had  done  at  first. 
These  were  occasions  of  great  happiness,  it  need  not  be 
said — but  of  many  thoughts  and  wonderings  too.  She 
had  always  an  excuse  for  Phil.  He  had  meant  until  the 


182  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

last  moment  to  come  with  her — some  one  had  turned 
up,  quite  unexpectedly,  who  had  prevented  him.  It 
was  a  fatality  ;  especially  when  she  came  down  in  July 
did  she  insist  upon  this.  He  had  been  invited  quite 
suddenly  to  a  political  dinner  to  meet  one  of  the  Min- 
isters from  whom  he  had  hopes  of  an  appointment. 
"  For  we  find  that  we  can't  go  on  enjoying  ourselves 
for  ever,"  she  said  gayly,  "  and  Phil  has  made  up  his 
mind  he  must  get  something  to  do." 

"It  is  always  the  best  way,"  said  Mrs.  Dennis- 
toun. 

"I  am  not  so  very  sure,  mamma,  when  you  have 
never  been  used  to  it.  Of  course,  some  people  would 
be  wretched  without  work.  Fancy  John  with  nothing 
to  do !  How  he  would  torment  his  wife — if  he  had 
one.  But  Phil  never  does  that.  He  is  very  easy  to 
live  with.  He  is  always  after  something,  and  leaves  me 
as  free  as  if  he  had  a  day's  work  in  an  office." 

This  slipped  out,  with  a  smile  :  but  evidently  after  it 
was  said  Elinor  regretted  she  had  said  it,  and  thought 
that  more  might  be  drawn  from  the  admission  than  she 
intended.  She  added  quietly,  "  Of  course  a  settled  oc- 
cupation would  interfere  with  many  things.  We  could 
not  go  out  together  continually  as  we  do  now." 

Was  there  any  way  of  reconciling  these  two  state- 
ments ?  Mrs.  Dennistoun  tried  and  tried  in  vain  to 
make  them  fit  into  each  other  :  and  yet  no  doubt  there 
was  some  way. 

"  And  perhaps  another  season,  mother,  if  Phil  was  in 
a  public  office — it  seems  so  strange  to  think  of  Phil 
having  an  office — you  might  come  up,  don't  you  think, 
to  town  for  a  time  ?  Would  it  be  a  dreadful  bore  to 
you  to  leave  the  country  just  when  it  is  at  its  best? 
I'm  afraid  it  would  be  a  dreadful  bore  :  but  we  could 
run  about  together  in  the  mornings  when  he  was  busy, 
and  go  to  see  the  pictures  and  things.  How  pleasant 
it  would  be  ! " 

"  It  would  be  delightful  for  me,  Elinor.  I  shouldn't 
mind  giving  up  the  country,  if  it  wouldn't  interfere 
with  your  engagements,  my  clear." 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR.  183 

"  Oh,  my  engagements !  Much  I  should  care  for 
them  if  Phil  was  occupied.  I  like,  of  course,  to  be 
with  him." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun. 

"And  it  is  good  for  him,  too,  I  think."  This  was 
another  of  the  little  admissions  that  Elinor  regretted 
the  moment  they  were  made.  "I  mean  it's  a  pity, 
isn't  it,  when  a  man  likes  to  have  his  wife  with  him  that 
she  shouldn't  always  be  there,  ready  to  go  ?  " 

"A  great  pity,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistouu,  and  then  she 
changed  the  subject.  "  I  thought  it  required  all  sorts 
of  examinations  and  things  for  a  man  to  get  into  a  pub- 
lic office  now." 

"  So  it  does  for  the  oi'dinary  grades,  which  would  be 
far,  far  too  much  routine  for  Phil.  But  they  say  a  min- 
ister always  has  things  in  his  power.  There  are  still 
posts " 

"Sinecures,  Elinor?" 

"I  did  not  mean  exactly  sinecures,"  she  said,  with  an 
embarrassed  laugh,  "  though  I  think  those  must  have 
been  fine  things ;  but  posts  where  it  is  not  merely  rou- 
tine, where  a  man  may  have  a  chance  of  acting  for  him- 
self and  distinguishing  himself,  perhaps.  And  to  be  in 
the  service  of  the  country  is  always  better,  safer,  than 
that  dreadful  city.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  thought  the  city  dreadful,  Elinor.  I 
have  had  many  friends  connected  with  the  city." 

"Ah,  but  not  in  those  horrid  companies,  mamma. 
Do  you  know  that  company  which  we  just  escaped, 
which  Phil  saved  my  money  out  of,  when  it  was  all  but 
invested — I  believe  that  has  ruined  people  right  and 
left.  He  got  out  of  it,  fortunately,  just  before  the 
smash  ;  that  is,  of  course,  he  never  had  very  much  to 
do  with  it,  he  was  only  on  the  Board." 

"  And  where  is  your  money  now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  can  answer  that  question  this  time,"  said 
Elinor,  gayly.  "  He  had  just  time  to  get  it  into  anoth- 
er company  which  pays — beautifully  !  The  Jew  is  in  it, 
too,  and  the  whole  lot  of  them.  Oh !  I  beg  your  par- 
don, mamma.  I  tried  hard  to  call  her  by  her  proper 


184  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

name,  but  when  one  never  hears  any  other,  one  can't 
help  getting  into  it!  " 

"  I  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  "  that  Philip  was 
not  much  mixed  up  with  this  company  if  other  people 
have  been  ruined,  and  he  has  escaped  ?  " 

"How  could  that  be?"  said  Elinor,  with  a  sort  of 
tremulous  dignity.  "  You  don't  suppose  for  a  moment 

that  he .  But  of  course  you  don't,"  she  added  with 

a  heightened  colour  and  a  momentary  cloud  over  her 
eyes,  "  of  course  you  don't.  There  was  a  dreadful  man- 
ager who  destroyed  the  books  and  then  fled,  so  that 
there  never  could  be  a  right  winding  up  of  the  affairs." 

"I  hope  Philip  will  take  great  care  never  to  hare  to 
do  with  anything  of  the  kind  again." 

"Oh,  no,  he  has  promised  me  he  will  not.  I  will  not 
have  it.  He  has  a  kind  of  ornamental  directorship  on 
this  new  company,  just  for  the  sake  of  his  name :  but 
he  has  promised  me  he  will  have  nothing  more  to  do 
with  it  for  ray  peace  of  mind." 

"I  wonder  that  they  should  care  in  the  city  for  so 
small  a  matter  as  a  peer's  younger  son." 

"Oh,  do  you  think  it  a  small  matter,  mamma?  I 
don't  mean  that  I  care,  but  people  give  a  good  deal  of 
weight  to  it,  you  know." 

"I  meant  only  in  the  city,  Elinor." 

"  Oh  !  "  Elinor  said.  She  was  half  offended  with  her 
mother's  indifference.  She  had  found  that  to  be  the 
Hon.  Mrs.  Comptou  was  something,  or  so  at  least  she 
supposed  :  and  she  began  timidly  to  give  her  mother  a 
list  of  her  engagements,  which  were  indeed  many  in 
number,  and  there  were  some  dazzling  names  among 
a  great  many  with  which  Mrs.  Dennistoun  was  un- 
acquainted. But  how  could  she  know  who  were  the 
fashionable  people  nowadays,  a  woman  living  so  com- 
pletely out  of  the  world  ? 

John  Tatham,  for  his  part,  went  through  his  engage- 
ments that  year  with  a  constant  expectation  of  seeing 
Elinor,  which  preoccupied  him  more  than  a  rising- 
young  barrister  going  everywhere  ought  to  have  been 
preoccupied.  He  thought  he  went  everywhere,  and  so 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  185 

did  his  family  at  home,  especially  his  sister,  Mary  Tat- 
ham,  who  was  his  father's  nurse  and  attendant,  and 
never  had  any  chance  of  sharing  these  delights.  She 
made  all  the  more,  as  was  natural,  of  John's  privileges 
and  social  success  from  the  fact  of  her  own  seclusion, 
and  was  in  the  habit  of  saying  that  she  believed  there 
was  scarcely  a  party  in  London  to  which  John  was  not 
invited — three  or  four  in  a  night.  But  it  would  seem 
with  all  this  that  there  were  many  parties  to  which  he 
was  not  invited,  for  the  Phil  Comptons  (how  strange  and 
on  the  whole  disgusting  to  think  that  this  now  meant 
Elinor  ! )  also  went  everywhere,  and  yet  they  very  sel- 
dom met.  It  was  true  that  John  could  not  expect  to 
meet  them  at  dinner  at  a  Judge's  or  in  the  legal  society 
in  high  places  which  was  his  especial  sphere,  and  noth- 
ing could  be  more  foolish  than  the  tremor  of  expecta- 
tion with  which  this  very  steady-going  man  would  set 
out  to  every  house  in  which  the  fashionable  world  met 

with  the  professional,  always  thinking  that  perhaps 

But  it  was  rarely,  very  rarely,  that  this  perhaps  came 
to  pass.  When  it  did  it  was  amid  the  crowd  of  some 
prodigious  reception  to  which  people  "  looked  in  "  for 
half  an  hour,  and  where  on  one  occasion  he  found  Eli- 
nor alone,  with  that  curious  dignity  about  her,  a  little 
tragical,  which  comes  of  neglect.  He  agreed  with  her 
mother,  that  he  had  never  imagined  Elinor's  youthful 
prettiness  couLl  have  come  to  anything  so  near  beauty. 
There  was  a  strained,  wide  open  look  in  her  eyes,  which 
was  half  done  by  looking  out  for  some  one,  and  half  by 
defying  any  one  to  think  that  she  felt  herself  alone,  or 
was  pursuing  that  search  with  any  anxiety.  She  stood 
exceedingly  erect,  silent,  observing  everything,  yet  en- 
deavouring to  appear  as  if  she  did  not  observe,  alto- 
gether a  singular  and  very  striking  figure  among  the 
fashionable  crowd,  in  which  it  seemed  everybody  was 
chattering,  smiling,  gay  or  making  believe  to  be  gay, 
except  herself.  When  she  saw  John  a  sudden  gleam  of 
pleasure,  followed  by  a  cloud  of  embarrassment,  came 
over  her  face  :  but  poor  Elinor  could  not  help  being 
glad  to  see  some  one  she  knew,  some  one  who  more  or 


ISO  THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR. 

less  belonged  to  her ;  although  it  appeared  she  had  the 
best  of  reasons  for  being  alone.  "  I  was  to  meet  Phil 
here,"  she  said,  "  but  somehow  I  must  have  missed 
him."  "  Let  us  walk  about  a  little,  and  we'll  be  sure 
to  find  him,"  said  John.  She  was  so  glad  to  take  his 
arm,  almost  to  cling  to  him,  to  find  herself  with  a 
friend.  "I  don't  know  many  people  here,"  she  con- 
fided to  John,  leaning  on  his  arm,  with  the  familiar  sis- 
terly dependence  of  old,  "  and  I  am  so  stupid  about 
coming  out  by  myself.  It  is  because  I  have  never  been 
used  to  it.  There  has  always  been  mamma,  and  then 
Phil ;  but  I  suppose  he  has  been  detained  somewhere 
to-night.  I  think  I  never  felt  so  lost  before,  among  all 
these  strange  people.  He  knows  everybody,  of  course." 

"  But  you  have  a  lot  of  friends,  Elinor." 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  brightly  enough;  "in  our  own 
set :  but  this  is  what  Phil  calls  more  serious  than  our 
set.  I  should  not  wonder  in  the  least  if  he  Imd  shirked 
it  at  the  last,  knowing  I  would  be  sure  to  come." 

"That  is  just  the  reason  why  I  should  have  thought 
he  would  not  shirk  it,"  said  John. 

"Ah,  that's  because  you're  not  married,"  said  Elinor, 
but  with  a  laugh  in  which  there  was  no  bitterness. 
"  Don't  you  know  one  good  of  a  wife  is  to  do  the  man's 
social  duties  for  him,  to  appear  at  the  dull  places  and 
save  his  credit  ?  Oh,  I  don't  object  at  all  ;  it  is  quite  a 
legitimate  division  of  labour.  I  shall  get  into  it  in 
time  :  but  I  am  so  stupid  about  coming  into  a  room 
alone,  and  instead  of  looking  about  to  see  what  people 
I  really  do  know,  I  just  stiffen  into  a  sort  of  shell.  I 
should  never  have  known  you  if  you  had  not  come  up 
to  me,  John." 

"  You  see  I  was  looking  out  for  you,  and  you  were 
not  looking  out  for  me,  that  makes  all  the  differ- 
ence." 

"  You  were  looking  out  for  us !  " 

"  Ever  since  the  season  began  I  have  been  looking 
out  for  you,  everywhere,"  said  John,  with  a  rather  fierce 
empli:isi«ou  the  pronoun,  which,  however,  as  everybody 
knows,  is  plural,  and  means  two  as  much  as  one,  though 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  1ST 

it  was  the  reverse  of  this  that  John  Tatham  meant  to 
show. 

"  Ah !  "  said  Elinor.  "  But  then  I  am  afraid  our  set 
is  different,  John.  There  will  always  be  some  places — 
like  this,  for  instance — where  I  hope  we  shall  meet ; 
but  our  set  perhaps  is  a  little  frivolous,  and  your  set  a 
little — serious,  don't  you  see  ?  You  are  professional 
and  political,  and  all  that  ;  and  Phil  is — well,  I  don't 
know  exactly  what  Phil  is — more  fashionable  and  frivo- 
lous, as  I  said.  A  race-going,  ball-going,  always  in 
motion  set." 

"  Most  people,"  said  John,  "  go  more  or  less  to  races 
and  balls." 

"  More  or  less,  that  makes  the  whole  difference.  We 
go  to  them  all.  Now  you  see  the  distinction,  John. 
You  go  to  Ascot  perhaps  on  the  cup  day  ;  we  go  all  the 
days  and  all  the  other  days,  at  the  other  places." 

"How  knowing  you  have  become  !  " 

"  Haven't  I  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  smile  that  was  half  a 
sigh. 

"  But  I  shouldn't  have  thought  that  would  have 
suited  you,  Elinor." 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  does,"  she  said,  and  then  she  eyed  him 
with  something  of  the  defiance  that  had  been  in  her 
look  when  she  was  standing  alone.  She  did  not  avoid 
his  look  as  a  less  brave  woman  might  have  done.  "  I 
like  the  fun  of  it,"  she  said. 

And  then  there  was  a  pause,  for  he  did  not  know 
what  to  reply. 

"  We  have  been  through  all  the  rooms,"  she  said  at 
last,  "  and  we  have  not  seen  a  ghost  of  Phil.  He  can- 
not be  coming  now.  What  o'clock  is  it?  Oh,  just  the 

time  he  will  be  due  at I'm  sure  he  can't  come  now. 

Do  you  think  you  could  get  my  carriage  for  me  ?  It's 
only  a  brougham  that  we  hire,"  she  said,  with  a  smile, 
"but  the  man  is  such  a  nice,  kind  man.  If  he  had 
been  an  old  family  coachman  he  couldn't  take  more 
care  of  me." 

"  That  looks  as  if  he  had  -to  take  care  of  you  often, 
Elinor/' 


1S8  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  looking  him  full  in  the  face  again, 
"  you  don't  suppose  my  husband  goes  out  with  me  in 
the  morning  shopping  ?  I  hope  he  has  something  bet- 
ter to  do." 

"  Shouldn't  you  like  to  have  your  mother  with  you 
for  the  shopping,  etc.?" 

"Ah,  dearly  !"  then  with  a  little  quick  change  of 
manner,  "another  time — not  this  season,  but  next,  if  I 
can  persuade  her  to  corne  ;  for  next  year  I  hope  we 
shall  be  more  settled,  perhaps  in  a  house  of  our  own,  if 
Phil  gets  the  appointment  he  is  after." 

"  Oh,  he  is  after  an  appointment?" 

"Yes,  John  ;  Phil  is  not  so  lucky  as  to  have  a  profes- 
sion like  yon." 

This  was  a  new  way  of  looking  at  the  matter,  and 
John  Tatham  found  nothing  to  say.  It  seemed  to  him, 
who  had  worked  very  hard  for  it,  a  little  droll  to  de- 
scribe his  possession  of  a  profession  as  luck.  But  he 
made  no  remark.  He  took  Elinor  down-stairs  and 
found  her  brougham  for  her,  and  the  kind  old  coach- 
man on  the  box,  who  was  well  used  to  taking  care  of 
her,  though  only  hired  from  the  livery  stables  for  the 
season — John  thought  the  old  man  looked  suspiciously 
at  him,  and  would  have  stopped  him  from  accompany- 
ing her,  had  he  designed  any  such  proceeding.  Poor 
little  Nelly,  to  be  watched  over  by  the  paternal  fly-man 

on  the  box!  she  who  might  have  had but  he 

stopped  himself  there,  though  his  heart  felt  as  heavy  as 
a  stone  to  see  her  go  away  thus,  alone  from  the  smart 
party  where  she  had  been  doing  duty  for  her  husband. 
John  could  not  take  upon  himself  to  finish  his  sentence 
— she  who  might  have  had  love  and  care  of  a  very  dif- 
ferent kind.  No  he  had  never  offered  her  that  love 
and  care.  Had  Phil  Compton  never  come  in  her  way 
it  is  possible  that  John  Tatham  might  never  have 
offered  it  to  her— not,  at  least,  for  a  long  time.  He 
could  never  have  had  any  right  to  be  a  dog  in  the 
manger,  neither  would  he  venture  to  pretend  now  that 
it  was  hrr  own  fault  if  she  had  chosen  the  wrong  man  ; 
was  it  his  fault  then,  who  had  never  put  a  better  man 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  189 

within  her  choice?  but  John,  who  was  no  coxcomb, 
blushed  in  the  dark  to  himself  as  this  question  flitted 
through  his  mind.  He  had  no  reason  to  suppose  that 
Elinor  would  have  been  willing  to  change  the  brotherly 
tie  between  them  into  any  other.  Thank  heaven  for 
that  brotherly  tie !  He  would  always  be  able  to  be- 
friend her,  to  stand  by  her,  to  help  her  as  much  as  any 
one  could  help  a  woman  who  was  married,  and  thus 
outside  of  all  ordinary  succour.  And  as  for  that  black- 
guard, that  (/^-Honourable  Phil But  here  John, 

who  was  a  man  of  just  mind,  paused  again.  For  a  man 
to  let  his  wife  go  to  a  party  by  herself  was  not  after  all 
so  dreadful  a  thing.  Many  men  did  so,  and  the  women 
did  not  complain ;  to  be  sure  they  were  generally  older, 
more  accustomed  to  manage  for  themselves  than  Elinor  : 
but  still,  a  man  need  not  be  a  blackguard  because  he 
did  that.  So  John  stopped  his  own  ready  judgment, 
but  still  I  am  afraid  in  his  heart  pronounced  Phil  Comp- 
ton's  sentence  all  the  same.  He  did  not  say  a  word 
about  this  encounter  to  Mrs.  Dennistoun  ;  at  least,  he 
did  tell  her  that  he  had  met  Elinor  at  the  So-and-So's, 
which,  as  it  was  one  of  the  best  houses  in  London,  was 
pleasing  to  a  mother  to  hear. 

"  And  how  was  she  looking  ?  "  Mrs.  Dennistoun  cried. 

"She  was  looking — beautiful "  said  John.  "I 

don't  flatter,  and  I  never  thought  her  so  in  the  old 
times — but  it  is  the  only  word  I  can  use " 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  so  ?  "  said  the  mother,  pleased. 
"  She  is  quite  embellished  and  improved — therefore  she 
must  be  happy." 

"It  is  certainly  the  very  best  evidence " 

"Isn't  it?  But  it  so  often  happens  otherwise,  even 
in  happy  m images.  A  girl  feels  strange,  awkward, 
out  of  it,  in  her  new  life.  Elinor  must  have  entirely 
accustomed  herself,  adapted  herself  to  it,  and  to  them, 
or  she  would  not  look  so  well.  That  is  the  greatest 
comfort  I  can  have." 

And  John  kept  his  own  counsel  about  Elinor's  ma- 
jestic solitude  and  the  watchful  old  coachman  in  the 
hired  brougham.  Her  husband  might  sti'l  be  full  of 


190  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

love  and  tenderness  all  the  same.  It  was  a  great  effort 
of  the  natural  integrity  of  his  character  to  pronounce 
like  this  ;  but  he  did  it  in  the  interests  of  justice,  and 
for  Elinor's  sake  and  her  mother's  said  nothing  of  the 
circumstances  at  all. 

It  may  be  supposed  that  when  Elinor  paid  the  last  of 
her  sudden  visits  at  the  cottage  it  was  a  heavy  moment 
both  for  mother  and  daughter.  It  was  the  time  when 
fashionable  people  finish  the  season  by  going  to  Good- 
wood— and  to  Goodwood  Elinor  was  going  with  a 
party,  Lady  Mariamne  and  a  number  of  the  "  set" 
She  told  her  mother,  to  amuse  her,  of  the  new  dr 
she  had  got  for  this  important  occasion.  "  Phil  says 
one  may  go  in  sackcloth  and  ashes  the  remainder  of  the 
yeai',  but  we  must  be  fine  for  Goodwood,"  she  said. 
"  I  wanted  him  to  believe  that  I  had  too  many  clothes 
already,  but  he  was  inexorable.  It  is  not  often,  is  it, 
that  one's  husband  is  more  anxious  than  one's  self 
about  one's  dress  ?  " 

"He  wants  you  to  do  him  credit,  Elinor." 

"Well,  mamma,  there  is  no  harm  in  that.  But  more 
than  that — he  wants  me  to  look  nice,  for  myself.  He 
thinks  me  still  a  little  shy — though  I  never  was  shy, 
was  I  ? — and  he  thinks  nothing  gives  you  courage  like 
feeling  yourself  well  dressed — but  he  takes  the  greatest 
interest  in  everything  I  wear." 

"  And  where  do  you  go  after  Goodwood,  Elinor  ?" 

"Oh,  mamma,  on  such  a  round  of  visits! — here  and 
there  and  everywhere.  I  don't  know,"  and  the  tears 
sprang  into  Elinor's  eyes,  "  when  I  may  see  you 
again." 

"You  are  not  coming  back  to  London,"  said  the 
mother,  with  the  heart  sinking  in  her  breast. 

"  Not  now — they  all  say  London  is  insupportable — 
it  is  one  of  the  things  that  everybody  says,  and  I  be- 
lieve that  Phil  will  not  set  foot  in^it  again  for  many 
mouths.  Perhaps  I  might  get  a  moment,  when  he  is 
shooting,  or  something,  to  run  back  to  you  ;  but  it  is  a 
long  way  from  Scotland — and  he  must  be  there,  you 
know,  for  the  12th,  He  would  think  the  world  was 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  191 

coming  to  an  end  if  he  did  not  get  a  shot  at  the  grouse 
on  that  day." 

"  But  I  thought  he  was  looking  for  an  appointment, 
Elinor?" 

A  cloud  passed  over  Elinor's  face.  "  The  season  is 
over,"  she  said,  "  and  all  the  opportunities  are  exhausted 
— and  we  don't  speak  of  that  any  more." 

She  gave  her  mother  a  very  close  hug  at  the  railway, 
and  sat  with  her  head  partly  out  of  the  window  watch- 
ing her  as  she  stood  on  the  platform,  until  the  train 
turned  round  the  corner.  Xo  relief  on  her  dear  face 
now,  but  an  anxious  strain  in  her  eyes  to  see  her  mother 
as  long  as  possible.  Mrs.  Dennistouu,  as  she  walked 
again  slowly  up  the  hills  that  the  pony  might  not  suffer, 
said  to  herself,  with  a  chill  at  her  heart,  that  she  would 
rather  have  seen  her  child  sinking  back  in  the  corner, 
pleased  that  it  was  over,  as  on  the  first  day. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  next  winter  was  more  dreary  still  and  solitary 
than  the  tirst  at  Windyhill.  The  first  had  been,  though 
it  looked  so  long  and  dreary  as  it  passed,  full  of  hope 
of  the  coming  summer,  which  must,  it  seemed,  bring 
Elinor  back.  But  now  Mrs.  Dennistoun  knew  exactly 
what  Elinor's  coming  back  meant,  and  the  prospect  was 
less  cheering.  Three  days  in  the  whole  long  season — 
three  tittle  escapades,  giving  so  very  little  hope  of  more 
sustained  intercourse  to  come.  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  going 
over  all  the  circumstances — she  had  so  little  else  to  do 
but  to  go  over  them  in  her  long  solitary  evenings — came 
to  the  conclusion  that  whatever  might  happen,  she  her- 
self would  go  to  town  when  summer  came  again.  She 
amused  herself  with  thinking  how  she  would  find  a  little 
house — quite  a  small  house,  as  there  are  so  many — in  a 
good  situation,  where  even  the  most  fashionable  need 
not  be  ashamed  to  come,  and  where  there  would  be  room 


192  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

enough  for  Elinor  and  her  husband  if  they  chose  to  es» 
tablish  themselves  there.  Mrs.  Dennistouu  was  of  opii> 
ion,  already  expressed,  that  if  mothers-in-law  are  ob- 
noxious to  men,  sons  in-law  are  very  frequently  so  to 
women,  which  is  a  point  of  view  not  popularly  perceived. 
And  Philip  Compton  was  not  sympathetic  to  her  in  any 
point  of  view.  But  still  she  made  up  her  mind  to  en- 
dure him,  and  even  his  family,  for  the  sake  of  Elinor. 
She  planned  it  all  out— it  gave  a  little  occupation  to  the 
vacant  time — how  they  should  have  their  separate  rooms 
and  even  meals  if  that  turned  out  most  convenient ;  how 
she  would  interfere  with  none  of  their  ways  :  only  to 
have  her  Elinor  under  her  roof,  to  have  her  when  the 
husband  was  occupied — in  the  evenings,  if  there  were 
any  evenings  that  she  spent  alone  ;  in  the  mornings, 
when  perhaps  Phil  got  up  late,  or  had  engagements  of 
his  own  ;  for  the  moment's  freedom  when  her  child 
should  be  free.  She  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would 
ask  no  questions,  would  never  interfere  with  any  of  their 
habits,  or  oppose  or  put  herself  between  them— only 
just  to  have  a  little  of  Elinor  every  day. 

"  For  it  will  not  be  the  same  thing  this  year,"  she 
said  to  John,  apologetically.  "  They  have  quite  settled 
down  into  each  other's  ways.  Philip  must  see  I  have  no 
intention  of  interfering.  For  the  most  obdurate  op- 
ponent of  mothers-in-law  could  not  think — could  he, 
John? — that  I  had  any  desire  to  put  myself  between 
them,'  or  make  myself  troublesome  now." 

"There  is  no  telling,"  said  John,  "what  such  asses 
might  think." 

"  But  Philip  is  not  an  ass  ;  and  don't  you  think  I  have 
behaved  very  well,  and  may  give  myself  this  indulgence 
the  second  year?" 

"I  certainly  think  you  will  be  quite  right  to  come  to 
town  :  but  I  should  not  have  thena  to  live  with  you,  if  I 
were  you." 

"Shouldn't  you?  It  might  be  a  risk:  but  then  I 
shouldn't  do  it  unless  there  was  room  enough  to  leave 
them  quite  free.  The  thing  I  am  afraid  of  is  that  they 
wouldn't  accept." 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  193 

"  Oh,  Phil  Compton  will  accept,"  said  John,  hurriedly. 

'•  Why  are  you  so  sure  ?  I  think  often  you  know 
more  about  him  than  you  ever  sa}r." 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  him,  but  I  know  that  a 
:saan  of  uncertain  income  and  not  very  delicate  feelings 
is  generally  glad  enough  to  have  the  expenses  of  the 
season  taken  off  him  :  and  even  get  all  the  more  pleas- 
ure out  of  it  when  he  has  his  living  free." 

"  That's  not  a  very  elevated  view  to  take  of  the  trans- 
action, John." 

"My  dear  aunt,  I  did  not  think  you  expected  any- 
thing very  elevated  from  the  Comptons.  They  are  not 
the  sort  of  family  from  which  one  expects " 

"  And  yet  it  is  the  family  that  my  Elinor  belongs  to  : 
she  is  a  Compton." 

"  I  did  not  think  of  that,"  said  John,  a  little  discon- 
certed. Then  he  added,  "  There  is  no  very  elevated 
standard  in  such  matters.  Want  of  money  has  no  law: 
and  of  course  there  are  better  things  involved,  for  he 
might  be  very  glad  that  Elinor  should  have  her  mother 
to  go  out  with  her,  to  stand  by  when — a  man  might 
have  other  engagements." 

Mrs.  Deunistouu  looked  at  him  closely  and  shook  her 
head.  She  was  not  very  much  reassured  by  this  view 
of  the  case.  "  At  ah1  events  I  shall  try  it,"  she  said. 

Quite  early  in  the  year,  when  she  was  expecting  no 
such  pleasure,  she  was  rewarded  for  her  patience  by  an- 
other flying  visit  from  her  child,  who  this  time  tele- 
graphed  to  say  she  was  coming,  so  that  her  mother 
could  go  and  meet  her  at  the  station,  and  thus  lose  no 
moment  of  her  visit.  Elinor,  however,  was  not  in  good 
spirits  on  this  occasion,  nor  was  she  in  good  looks.  She 
told  her  mother  hurriedly  that  Phil  had  come  up  upon 
business  ;  that  he  was  very  much  engaged  with  the  new 
company,  getting  far  more  into  it  than  satisfied  her. 
"  I  am  terrified  that  another  catastrophe  may  come,  and 
that  he  might  share  the  blame  if  things  were  to  go 
wrong  " — which  was  by  no  means  a  good  preface  ft>r  the 
mission  with  which  it  afterwards  appeared  Elinor  hersell 
was  charged. 
13 


194  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

"  Phil  told  me  to  say  to  you,  mamma,  that  if  you 
were  not  satisfied  with  any  of  your  investments,  he  could 
help  you  to  a  good  six  or  seven  per  cent. " 

She  said  this  with  her  head  turned  away,  gazing  out 
of  the  window,  contemplating  the  wintry  aspect  o/  the 
combe  with  a  countenance  as  cloudy  and  as  little  cheer- 
ful as  itself. 

There  was  an  outcry  on  Mrs.  Deimistoun's  lips,  but 
fortunately  her  sympathy  with  her  child  was  so  strong 
that  she  felt  Elinor's  sentiments  almost  more  forcibly 
than  her  own,  and  she  managed  to  answer  in  a  quiet, 
untroubled  voice. 

"  Philip  is  very  kind,  my  dear  :  but  you  know  my  in- 
vestments are  all  settled  for  me  and  I  have  no  will  of  my 
own.  I  get  less  interest,  but  then  I  have  less  responsi- 
bility. Don't  you  know  I  belong  to  the  time  in  which 
women  were  not  supposed  to  be  good  for  anything,  and 
consequently  I  am  in  the  hands  of  my  trustees." 

"  I  think  he  foresaw  that,  mother,"  said  Elinor,  still 
with  her  head  averted  and  her  eyes  far  away;  "  but  he 
thought  you  might  represent  to  the  trustees  that  not 
only  would  it  give  you  more  money,  but  it  would  be 
better  in  the  end  for  me.  Oh,  how  I  hate  to  have  to 
say  this  to  you,  mamma!  " 

How  steadily  Mrs.  Dennistoun  kept  her  countenance, 
though  her  daughter  now  flung  herself  upon  her 
shoulder  with  uncontrollable  tears  ! 

"  My  darling,  it  is  quite  natural  you  should  say  it. 
You  must  tell  Philip  that  I  fear  I  am  powerless.  1  will 
try,  but  I  don't  think  anything  will  come  of  it.  I  have 
been  glad  to  be  free  of  responsibility,  and  I  have  never 
attempted  to  interfere." 

"Mother,  I  am  so  thankful.  I  oughtn't  to  go  against 
him,  ought  I?  But  I  would  not  have  you  take  his  ad- 
vice. It  is  so  dreadful  not  to  appear 

"My  dear,  you  must  try  to  think  that  he  understands 
better  than  you  do  :  men  generally  do  :  you  are  only  -i 
"irl»  and  they  are  trained  more  or  less  to  business." 
"Not  Phil  !  not  Phil  !" 

'•Well,  he  must   have   some   capacity   for   it,   some 


TEE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  195 

understanding,  or  they  would  not  want  him  on  those 
boards  ;  and  }rou  cannot  have,  Elinor,  for  you  know 
nothing  about  it  To  hear  you  speak  of  per  cents,  makes 
me  laugh."  It  was  a  somewhat  forlorn  kind  of  laugh, 
yet  the  mother  executed  it  finely :  and  by  and  by  the 
subject  dropped,  and  Elinor  was  turned  to  talk  of  other 
things — other  things  of  which  there  was  a  great  deal  to 
say,  and  over  which  they  cried  and  laughed  together  as 
nature  bade. 

In  the  same  evening,  the  precious  evening  of  which 
she  did  not  like  to  waste  a  moment,  Mrs.  Dennistoun 
unfolded  her  plan  for  the  season.  "  I  feel  that  I  know 
exactly  the  kind  of  house  I  want ;  it  will  probably  be  in 
some  quiet  insignificant  place,  a  Chapel  Street,  or  a 
Queen  Street,  or  a  Park  Street  somewhere,  but  in  a 
good  situation.  You  shall  have  the  first  floor  all  to 
yourself  to  receive  your  visitors,  and  if  you  thiixk  that 
Philip  would  prefer  a  separate,  table " 

"  Oh,  mamma,  mamma  !  "  cried  Elinor,  clinging  to 
her,  kissing  passionately  her  mother's  cheek,  which  was 
still  as  soft  as  a  child's. 

"It  is  not  anything  you  have  told  me  now  that  has 
put  this  into  my  head,  my  darling.  I  had  made  it  all  up 
in  my  own  mind.  Then,  you  know,  when  your  husband 
is  engaged  with  those  business  affairs — in  the  city — or 
with  his  own  friends — you  would  have  your  mother  to 
fall  back  upon,  Elinor.  I  should  have  just  the  moments 
perdas,  don't  you  see,  when  you  were  doing  nothing 
else,' when  you  were  wanted  for  nothing  else.  I  promise 
you,  my  darling,  I  should  never  be  de  Irop,  and  would 
never  interfere." 

"Oh,  mamma,  mamma!"  Elinor  cried  again  as  if 
words  failed  her  ;  and  so  they  did,  for  she  said  scarcely 
anything  more,  and  evaded  any  answer.  It  went  to  her 
mother's  heart,  yet  she  made  her  usual  excuses  for  it. 
Poor  child,  once  so  ready  to  decide,  accepting  or  re- 
jecting with  the  certainty  that  no  opposition  would  be 
made  to  her  will,  but  now  afraid  to  commit  herself,  to 
say  anything  that  her  husband  would  not  approve ! 
Well !  Mrs.  Dennistoun  said  to  herself,  many  a  young 


196  THE  MARPdAQE  OF  ELINOR. 

•wife  is  like  that,  and  yet  is  happy  enough.  It  depends 
so  much  on  the  man.  Many  a  man  adores  his  wife  and 
is  very  good  to  her,  and  yet  cannot  bear  that  she  should 
seem  to  settle  anything  without  consulting  his  whim. 
And  Philip  Compton  had  never  been  what  might  be 
called  an  easy-going  man.  It  was  right  of  Elinor  to 
give  no  answer  till  she  knew  what  he  would  like.  The 
dreadful  thing  was  that  she  expressed  no  pleasure  in 
her  mother's  proposal,  scarcely  looked  as  if  she  herself 
would  like  it,  which  was  a  thing  which  did  give  an  un- 
questionable wound. 

"Mamma,"  she  said,  as  they  were  driving  to  the 
station,  not  in  the  pony  carriage  this  time,  but  in  the 
lly,  for  the  weather  was  bad,  "  don't  be  vexed  that  1 
don't  say  more  about  your  wonderful,  your  more  than 
kind  offer." 

"  Kind  is  scarcely  a  word  to  use,  Elinor,  between  you 
and  me." 

"I  know,  I  know,  mamma — and  I  as  good  as  refuse 
it,  saying  nothing.  Oh,  if  I  could  tell  you  without  tell- 
ing you !  I  am  so  frightened — how  can  I  say  it  ? — that 
you  should  see  things  you  would  not  approve !  " 

"  My  dear,  I  am  of  one  generation  and  you  are  of 
another.  I  am  an  old  woman,  and  your  husband  is  a 
young  man.  But  what  does  that  matter  ?  We  can 
agree  to  differ.  I  will  never  thrust  myself  into  his 
private  affairs,  and  he " 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother  darling,  it  is  not  that,"  Elinor 
said.  And  she  went  away  without  any  decision.  But 
in  a  few  days  there  came  to  Mrs.  Dennistoun  a  letter 
from  Philip  himself,  most  nobly  expressed,  saying  that 
Elinor  had  told  him  of  her  mother's  kind  offer,  and  that 
he  hastened  to  accept  it  with  the  utmost  gratitude  ami 
devotion.  He  had  just  been  wondering,  he  wrote,  how 
he  was  to  muster  all  things  necessary  for  Elinor,  with 
the  business  engagements  which  were  growing  upon 
himself.  Nobody  could  understand  better  than  Nell's 
good  mother  how  necessary  it  was  that  he  should 
neglect  no  means  of  securing  their  position,  and  he  had 
found  that  often  he  would  have  to  leave  his  darling  by 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  197 

herself :  but  this  magnificent,  this  magnanimous  offer 
on  her  part  would  make  everything  right.  Need  he 
say  how  gratefully  he  accepted  it  ?  Nell  and  he  being 
on  the  spot  would  immediately  begin  looking  out  for 
the  house,  and  when  they  had  a  list  of  three  or  four  to 
look  air  he  hoped  she  would  come  up  to  their  rooms  and 
select  what  she  liked  best.  This  response  took  away 
Mrs.  Demiistoun's  breath,  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  she  had 
her  own  notions  as  to  the  house  she  wanted  and  as  to 
the  time  to  be  spent  in  town,  and  would  certainly  have 
preferred  to  manage  everything  herself.  But  in  this 
she  had  to  yield,  with  thankfulness  that  in  the  main 
point  she  was  to  have  her  way. 

Did  she  have  her  way?  It  is  very  much  to  be 
doubted  whether  in  such  a  situation  of  affairs  it  would 
have  been  possible.  The  house  that  was  decided  upon 
was  not  one  which  she  would  have  chosen  for  her- 
self, neither  would  she  have  taken  it  from  Easter  to 
July.  She  had  meant  a  less  expensive  place  and  a 
shorter  season  ;  but  after  all,  what  did  that  matter  for 
once  if  it  pleased  Elinor  ?  The  worst  of  it  was  that  she 
could  not  at  all  satisfy  herself  that  it  pleased  Elinor. 
It  pleased  Philip,  there  was  no  doubt,  but  then  it  had 
not  been  intended  except  in  a  very  secondary  way  to 
please  him.  And  when  the  racket  of  the  season  began 
Mrs.  Deunistouu  had  a  good  deal  to  bear.  Philip, 
though  he  was  supposed  to  be  a  man  of  business  and 
employed  in  the  city,  got  up  about  noon,  which  was 
dreadful  to  all  her  orderly  country  habits  ;  the  whole 
afternoon  through  there  was  a  perpetual  tumult  of  visi- 
tors, who,  when  by  chance  she  encountered  them  in  the 
hall  or  on  the  stairs,  looked  at  her  superciliously  as  if  she 
were  the  landlady.  The  man  Avho  opened  the  door,  and 
brushed  Philip  Compton's  clothes,  and  was  in  his  service, 
looked  superciliously  at  her  too,  and  declined  to  have  any- 
thing to  say  to  "  the  visitors  for  down-stairs."  A  noise  of 
laughter  and  loud  talk  was  (distinctly)  in  her  ears  from 
noon  till  late  at  night.  When  Philip  came  home, 
always  much  later  than  his  wife,  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
bringing  men  with  him,  whose  voices  rang  through  the 


198  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

house  after  everybody  was  in  bed.  To  be  sure,  there 
were  compensations.  She  had  Elinor  often  for  an  hour 
or  two  in  the  morning  before  her  husband  was  up. 
She  had  her  in  the  evenings  when  they  were  not  going 
out,  but  these  were  few.  As  for  Philip,  he  never  dined 
at  home.  When  he  had  no  engagements  he  dined  at 
his  club,  leaving  Elinor  with  her  mother.  He  gave 
Mrs.  Deuuistouu  very  little  of  his  company,  and  when 
they  did  meet  there  was  in  his  manner  too  a  sort  of 
reflection  of  the  superciliousness  of  the  "  smart "  visitors 
and  the  "smart"  servant.  She  was  to  him,  too,  in 
some  degree  the  landlady,  the  old  lady  down-stairs. 
Elinor,  as  was  natural,  redoubled  her  demonstrations  of 
affection,  her  excuses  and  sweet  words  to  make  up  for 
this  neglect :  but  all  the  time  there  was  in  her  mother's 
mind  that  dreadful  doubt  which  assails  us  when  we 
have  committed  ourselves  to  one  act  or  another,  "  Was 
it  wise?  Would  it  not  have  been  better  to  have 
denied  herself  and  stayed  fiway  ?  "  So  far  as  self-denial 
went,  it  was  more  exercised  in  Curzon  Street  than  it 
would  have  been  at  the  Cottage.  For  she  had  to  see 
many  things  that  displeased  her  and  to  say  no  word  ; 
to  guess  at  the  tears,  carefully  washed  away  from  Eli- 
nor's eyes,  and  to  ask  no  questions,  and  to  see  what  she 
could  not  but  feel  was  the  violent  career  downward,  the 
rush  that  must  lead  to  a  catastrophe,  but  make  no  sign. 
There  was  one  evening  wbefi  Elinor,  not  looking  well 
or  feeling  well,  had  stayed  at  home,  Philip  having  n 
whole  long  list  of  engagements  in  hand  ;  men's  engage- 
ments, his  wife  explained,  a  stockbrokiug  dinner,  an 
adjournment  to  somebody's  chambers,  a  prolonged  sit- 
ting, which  meant  play,  and  a  great  deal  of  wine,  and 
other  attendant  circumstances  into  which  she  did  not 
enter.  Elinor  had  no  engagement  for  that  night,  and 
was  free  to  be  petted  and  feted  by  her  mother.  She 
was  put  at  her  ease  in  a  soft  and  rich  dressing-gown, 
and  the  pi-ettiest  little  dinner  served,  and  the  room 
tilled  with  flowers,  and  everything  done  that  used  to  be 
done  when  she  was  recovering  from  some  little  mock 
illness,  some  child's  malady,  just  enough  to  show  how 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  199 

dear  above  everything  was  the  child  to  the  mother,  and 
with  what  tender  ingenuity  the  mother  could  invent 
new  delights  for  the  child.  These  delights,  alas !  did 
.not  transport  Elinor  now  as  they  once  had  done,  and 
yet  the  repose  was  sweet,  and  the  comfort  of  this  near- 
est and  dearest  friend  to  lean  upon  something  more 
than  words  could  say. 

On  this  evening,  however,  in  the  quiet  of  those  still 
hours,  poor  Elinor's  heart  was  opened,  or  rather  her 
mouth,  which  on  most  occasions  was  closed  so  firmly. 
She  said  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  something  quite 
different,  "  Oh,  I  wish  Phil  was  not  so  much  engaged 
with  those  dreadful  city  men." 

"  My  dear  !  "  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  who  was  think- 
ing of  far  other  things  ;  and  then  she  said,  "  there 
surely  cannot  be  much  to  fear  in  that  respect.  He  is 
never  in  the  city — he  is  never  up,  my  dear,  when  the 
city  men  are  doing  their  work." 

"Ah,"  said  Elinor,  "I  don't  think  that  matters;  he 
is  in  with  them  all  the  same." 

"  Well,  Elinor,  there  is  no  reason  that  there  should 
be  any  harm  in  it.  I  would  much  rather  he  had  some 
real  business  in  hand  than  be  merely  a  butterfly  of 
fashion.  You  must  not  entertain  that  horror  of  city 
men." 

"  The  kind  he  knows  are  different  from  the  kind  you 
know,  mamma." 

"I  suppose  everything  is  different  from  what  it  was 
in  my  time  :  but  it  need  not  be  any  worse  for  that 

"  Oh,  mother!  you  are  obstinate  in  thinking  well  of 
everything  ;  but  sometimes  I  am  so  frightened,  I  feel 
as  if  I  must  do  something  dreadful  myself — to  precipi- 
tate the  ruin  which  nothing  I  can  do  will  stop " 

"  Elinor,  Elinor,  this  is  far  too  strong  language ' 

"Mamma,  he  wants  me  to  speak  to  you  again.  He 
wants  you  to  give  your  money — 

"  But  I  have  told  you  already  I  cannot  give  it,  Elinor." 

"  Heaven  be  praised  for  that !  But  he  will  speak  to 
you  himself,  he  will  perhaps  try  to — bully  you,  mamma." 

"Elinor!  " 


200  THi:   MA1U11  AUK   or  ELINOR. 

"  It  is  horrible,  what  I  say  ;  yes,  it  is  horrible,  but 
I  want  to  warn  you.  He  says  things — 

"  Nothing  that  he  can  say  will  make  me  forget  that 
he  is  your  husband,  Elinor." 

"Ah,  but  don't  think  too  much  of  that,  mamma. 
Think  that  he  doesn't  know  what  he  is  doing — poor 
Phil,  oh,  poor  Phil !  He  is  hurried  on  by  these  people  ; 
and  then  it  will  break  up,  and  the  poor  people  will  be 
ruined,  and  they  will  upbraid  him,  and  yet  he  will  not 
be  a  whit  the  better.  He  does  not  get  any  of  the  profit. 

I  can  see  it  all  as  clear And  there  are  so  many 

other  things." 

Mrs.  Dennistoun's  heart  sank  in  her  breast,  for  she 
too  knew  what  were  the  other  things.  "  We  must  have 
patience,"  she  said  ;  "  he  is  in  his  hey-day,  full  of — high 
spirits,  and  thinking  everything  he  touches  must  go 
right.  He  will  steady  down  in  time." 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  complaining,"  cried  Elinor,  hurriedly 
dashing  her  tears  away  ;  "if  you  were  not  a  dreadfully 
good  mamma,  if  you  would  grumble  sometimes  and 
iind  fault,  that  I  might  defend  him  !  It  is  the  sight  of 
you  there,  seeing  everything  and  not  saying  a  word 
that  is  too  much  for  me." 

"Then  I  will  grumble,  Elinor.  I  will  even  say  some- 
thing to  him  for  our  own  credit.  He  should  not  come 
in  so  late — at  least  when  he  comes  in  he  should  come  in 
to  rest  and  not  bring  men  with  him  to  make  a  noise. 
You  see  I  can  find  fault  as  much  us  heart  could  desire. 
I  am  dreadfully  selfish.  I  don't  mind  when  he  goes 
out  now  and  then  without  you,  for  then  I  have  you  ; 
but  he  should  not  bring  noisy  men  with  him  to  disturb 
the  house  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  I  think  I  will 
speak  to  him 

"No,"  said  Elinor,  with  a  clutch  upon  her  mother's 
arm  ;  "  no,  don't  do  that  He  does  not  like  to  be  found 
fault  with.  Unless  in  the  case — if  you  were  giving 
him  that  money,  mother." 

"  Which  I  cannot  do  :  and  Elinor,  my  darling,  which 
I  would  not  do  if  I  could.  It  is  all  you  wiD  have  to  rely 
upon,  you  and " 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  201 

"  It  would  have  been  the  only  chance,"  said  Elinor. 
"  I  don't  say  it  would  have  been  much  of  a  chance. 
But  he  might  have  listened,  if Oh,  no,  dear  moth- 
er, no.  I  would  not  in  niy  sober  senses  wish  that 
you  should  give  him  a  penny.  It  would  do  no  good, 
but  only  harm.  And  yet  if  you  had  done  it,  you  might 

have  said and  he  might  have  listened  to  you  for 

once " 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A  FEW  days  after  this  Philip  Compton  came  in,  in  the 
afternoon,  to  the  little  room  down-stairs  which  Mrs. 
Dennistoun  had  made  into  a  sitting-room  for  herself. 
Elinor  had  gone  out  with  her  sister-in-law,  and  her 
mother  was  alone.  It  was  a  very  rare  thing  indeed  for 
Mrs.  Dennistoun's  guest — who,  indeed,  was  to  all  in- 
tents and  purposes  the  master  of  the  house,  and  had 
probably  quite  forgotten  by  this  time  that  he  was  not 
in  reality  so — to  pay  a  visit  "down-stairs."  "Down- 
stairs "  had  a  distinct  meaning  in  the  Compton  vocabu- 
lary. It  was  spoken  of  with  significance,  and  with  a 
laugh,  as  something  half  hostile,  half  ridiculous.  It 
meant  a  sort  of  absurd  criticism  and  inspection,  as  of 
some  old  crone  sitting  vigilant,  spying  upon  everything 
— a  mother-in-law.  Phil's  cronies  thought  it  was  the 
most  absurd  weakness  on  his  part  to  let  such  an  in- 
truder get  footing  in  his  house.  "  You  will  never  get 
rid  of  her,"  they  said.  ^Jid  Phil,  though  he  was  gener- 
ally quite  civil  to  his  writ's  mother  (being  actually  and 
at  his  heart  more  a  gentleman  than  he  had  the  least 
idea  he  was),  did  not  certainly  in  any  way  seek  her  so- 
ciety. He  scarcely  ever  dined  at  home,  as  has  been 
said  ;  when  he,  had  not  an  engagement — and  he  had  a 
great  many  engagements — he  found  that  he  was  obliged 
to  dine  at  his  club  on  the  evenings  when  he  might  have 
been  free  ;  and  as  this  was  the  only  meal  which  was 
supposed  to  be  common,  it  may  be  perceived  that  Phil 


202  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

had  little  means  of  meeting  his  mother-in-law  ;  and 
that  he  should  come  to  see  her  of  his  own  free  will  was 
unprecedented.  Phil  Compton  had  not  improved  since 
his  marriage.  His  nocturnal  enjoyments,  the  noisy 
parties  up- stairs  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  had  not 
helped  to  dissipate  the  effect  of  the  anxieties  of  the  city, 
which  his  wife  so  deplored.  Mrs.  Dennistoun  that  very 
day,  when  she  came  down-stairs  in  the  fresh  summer 
morning  to  her  early  breakfast,  had  seen  through  an 
open  door  the  room  up-stairs  which  was  appropriated  to 
Phil,  with  a  lamp  still  burning  in  the  daylight,  cards 
lying  strewn  about  the  floor,  and  all  in  that  direful  dis- 
order which  a  room  so  occupied  overnight  shows  in  the 
clear  e}re  of  the  day.  The  aspect  of  the  room  had  given 
her  a  shock  almost  more  startling  than  any  moral  cer- 
tainty, as  was  natural  to  a  woman  used  to  all  the  deco- 
rums and  delicacies  of  a  well-ordered  life.  There  is  no 
sin  in  going  late  to  bed,  or  even  letting  a  lamp  burn 
into  the  day  ;  but  the  impression  that  such  a  sight 
makes  even  upon  the  careless  is  always  greater  than  any 
mere  apprehension  by  the  mind  of  the  midnight  sit- 
ting, the  eager  game,  the  chances  of  loss  and  ruin.  She 
had  not  been  able  to  get  that  sight  out  of  her  eyes. 
Though  on  ordinary  occasions  she  never  entered  Phil's 
rooms,  on  this  she  had  stolen  in  to  put  out  the  lamp, 
with  the  sensation  in  her  mind  of  destroying  some 
evidence  against  him,  which  someone  less  interested 
than  she  might  have  used  to  his  disadvantage.  And 
she  had  sent  up  the  housemaid  to  "  do "  the  room, 
with  an  admonition.  "I  cannot  have  Mr.  Compton's 
rooms  neglected,"  she  said.  "The  gentlemen  is  always 
so  late,"  the  housemaid  said  in  self-defence.  "I  hears 
them  let  themselves  out  sometimes  after  we're  all  up 
down-stairs."  "I  don't  want  to  hear  anything  about 
the  gentlemen.  Do  your  work  at  the  proper  time  ;  that 
is  all  that  is  asked  of  you."  Phil's  servant  appeared  at 
the  moment  pulling  on  his  coat,  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  has  been  up  half  the  night — which,  indeed,  was 
the  case,  for  "  the  gentlemen  "  when  they  came  in  had 
various  wants  that  had  to  be  supplied.  "  What's  up 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR 

now?"  he  said  to  the  housemaid,  within  hearing  of  her 
mistress,  casting  an  insolent  look  at  the  old  lady,  who 
belonged  to  "  down- stairs."  "She've  been  prying  and 

spying  about  like  they  all  do "     Mrs.  Dennistoun 

had  retreated  within  the  shelter  of  her  room  to  escape 
the  end  of  this  sentence,  which  still  she  heard,  with 
the  usual  quickness  of  our  faculties  in  such  cases. 
She  swallowed  her  simple  breakfast  with  what  appe- 
tite she  might,  and  her  stout  spirit  for  the  moment 
broke  down  before  this  insult  which  was  ridiculous, 
she  said  to  herself,  from  a  saucy  servant-man.  What 
did  it  matter  to  her  what  Johnson  did  or  said  ?  But  it 
was  like  the  lamp  burning  in  the  sunshine  :  it  gave  a 
moral  shock  more  sharp  than  many  a  thing  of  much 
more  importance  would  have  been  capable  of  doing,  and 
she  had  not  been  able  to  get  over  it  all  day. 

It  may  be  supposed,  therefore,  that  it  was  an  un- 
fortunate moment  for  Phil  Compton's  visit.  Mrs.  Den- 
nistouu  had  scarcely  seen  them  that  day,  and  she  was 
sitting  by  herself,  somewhat  sick  at  heart,  wondering  if 
anything  would  break  the  routine  into  which  their  life 
was  falling  ;  or  if  this  was  what  Elinor  must  address 
herself  to  as  its  usual  tenor.  It  would  be  better  in  the 
country,  she  said  to  herself.  It  was  only  in  the  bustle 
of  the  season,  when  everybody  of  his  kind  was  congre- 
gated in  town,  that  it  would  be  like  this.  In  their 
rounds  of  visits,  or  when  the  whole  day  was  occupied 
with  sport,  such  nocturnal  sittings  would  be  impossible 
— and  she  comforted  herself  by  thinking  that  they 
would  not  be  consistent  with  any  serious  business  in 
the  city  such  as  Elinor  feared.  The  one  danger  must 
push  away  the  other.  He  could  not  gamble  at  night  in 
that  way,  and  gamble  in  the  other  among  the  stock- 
brokers. They  were  both  ruinous,  no  doubt,  but  they 
could  not  both  be  carried  on  at  the  same  time — or  so, 
at  least,  this  innocent  woman  thought.  There  was 
enough  to  be  anxious  and  alarmed  about  without  taking 
two  impossible  dangers  into  her  mind  together. 

And  just  then  Phil  knocked  at  her  door.  He  came 
in  smiling  and  gracious,  and  with  that  look  of  high 


20-4  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

breeding  and  woir  fair<>  which  had  conciliated  her  be- 
fore and  which  she  felt  the  influence  of  now,  although 
she  was  aware  how  many  drawbacks  there  were,  and 
knew  that  the  respect  which  her  son-in-law  showed  was 
far  from  genuine.  "I  never  see  you  to  have  a  chat," 
he  said  ;  "I  thought  I  would  take  the  opportunity  to- 
day, when  Elinor  was  out.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  how 
you  think  she  is." 

"I  think  ske  is  wonderfully  well,"  said  Mrs.  Den- 
nistoun. 

"  WondnftiUy  well  —  you  mean  considering  —  that 
there  is  too  much  racket  in  her  life  ?  " 

"Partly,  I  mean  that — but,  indeed,  I  meant  it  with- 
out condition ;  she  is  wonderfully  well.  I  am  sur- 
prised, often " 

"It  is  rather  a  racket  of  a  life,"  said  Phil. 

"Too  much,  indeed — it  is  too  much — for  a  woman 
who  i.s  beginning  her  serious  life — but  if  you  think  that, 
it  is  a  great  thing  gained,  for  j-ou  can  put  a  stop  to  it, 
or  moderate — 'the  pace '  don't  you  call  it?"  she  said, 
with  a  smile. 

"  Well,  yes.  I  suppose  we  could  moderate  the  pace 
—but  that  would  mean  a  great  deal  for  me.  You  see, 
when  a  man's  launched  it  isn't  always  so  easy  to  stop. 
Nell,  of  course,  if  you  thought  she  wanted  it — might  go 
to  the  country  with  you." 

Mrs.  Dennistouu's  heart  gave  a  leap.  "  Might  go  to 
the  country  with  you  !  "  It  seemed  a  glimpse  of  Para- 
dise that  burst  upon  her.  But  then  she  shook  her 
head.  "You  know  Elinor  would  not  leave  you, 
Philip." 

"  Well !  she  has  a  ridiculous  partiality,"  he  said,  with 
a  laugh,  "  though,  of  course,  I'd  make  her — if  it  was 
really  for  her  advantage,"  he  added,  after  a  moment ; 
•u  don't  think  I'd  let  that  stand  in  her  way." 

•'  In  the  meantime,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  with  hesi- 
tation, "  without  proceeding  to  any  such  stringent  meas- 
ures—if you  could  manage  to  be  a  little  less  late  at 
night." 

"Oh,  you  listen  for  my  coming  in  at  night?" 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  205 

His  face  took  a  sombre  look,  as  if  a  cloud  had  come 
over  it. 

"I  do  not  listen — for  happily  for  me  I  have  been 
asleep  for  hours.  I  generally  jump  up  thinking  the 
house  is  on  fire  at  the  sound  of  voices,  which  make 
listening  quite  unnecessary,  Philip." 

"Ah,  yes,  the  fellows  are  rather  noisy,"  he  said,  care- 
lessly, "  but  Xell  sleeps  like  a  top,  and  pays  no  atten- 
tion—which is  the  best  thing  she  can  do.'' 

•'  I  would  not  be  too  sure  she  slept  like  a  top." 

"  It's  true  ;  women  are  all  hypocrites  alike.  You 
never  know  when  you  have  them."  Phil  said. 

And  then  there  was  a  pause  ;  for  she  feared  to  say 
anything  more  lest  she  should  go  too  far ;  and  he  for 
once  in  his  life  was  embarrassed,  and  did  not  know  how 
to  begin  what  he  had  to  say. 

"Well,"  he  said,  quickly,  getting  up,  "I  must  be 
going.  I  have  business  in  the  city.  And  now  that 

I  find  you're  satisfied  about  Nell's  health By 

the  way,  you  never  show  in  our  rooms  ;  though  Xell 
spends  every  minute  she  has  to  spare  here." 

"  I  am  a  little  old  perhaps  for  your  friends,  Philip, 
and  the  room  is  not  too  large." 

"  Well,  no,"  he  said,  "'  they  are  wretched  little  rooms. 
Good-by,  then  ;  I'm  glad  you  think  Xell  is  all  right." 

Was  this  all  he  meant  to  say  ?  There  was.  however, 
an  uncertainty  about  his  step,  and  by  the  time  he  had 
opened  the  door  he  came  to  a  pause,  half  closed  it 
'again,  and  said,  "  Oh,  by  the  bye  !  " 

'•  What  is  it?"  said  Mrs.  Deunistoun. 

He  closed  the  door  again  and  came  back  half  a  step. 
"I  almost  forgot,  I  meant  to  tell  you  :  if  you  have  any 
money  to  invest,  I  could  help  you  to —  The  best 
thing  I've  heard  of  for  many  a  day  !  " 

••  You  are  very  kind,  Philip  ;  but  you  know  every- 
thing I  have  is  in  the  hands  of  trustees." 

"  Oh,  bother  trustees.  The  only  thing  they  do  is  to 
keep  your  dividends  down  to  the  lowest  amount  possible 
and  cut  short  your  income.  Come,  you're  quite  old 
enough  to  judge  for  yourself.  You  might  give  them  a 


206  TJJK   MARPJAOK   Or  ELINOR. 

jog.  At  your  time  of  life  they  ought  to  take  a  hint  from 
you." 

"  I  have  never  done  it,  Philip,  and  they  would  pay  no 
attention  to  me." 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  mamma.  Why  except  you,  who  has 
a  right  to  be  consulted  except  Neil  ?  and  if  I,  her  hus- 
band, am  your  adviser " 

"  I  know  they  would  do  nothing  but  mock  at  me." 

"Rubbish!  I'd  like  to  see  who  would  mock  at  you. 
Just  you  send  them  to  me,  that  is  all." 

"  Philip,  will  you  not  believe  me  when  I  say  that  it  is 
impossible?  I  have  never  interfered.  They  would  ask 
what  made  me  think  of  such  a  thing  now." 

"And  you  could  tell  them  a  jolly  good  opportunity, 
as  safe  as  the  bank,  and  paying  six  or  seven  per  cent. — 
none  of  your  fabulous  risky  ten  or  twelve  businesses, 

but  a  solid  steady How  could  it  be  to  my  interest 

to  mislead  you  ?  It  would  be  Nell  who  would  be  the 
loser.  I  should  be  simply  cutting  off  my  own  head." 

"  That  is  true,  no  doubt " 

"  And,'1  he  said,  scarcely  waiting  for  her  reply,  "  Nell 
is  really  the  person  who  should  be  consulted  :  for  if 
there  was  loss  eventually  it  would  come  upon  her — and 
so  upon  me.  I  mean  taking  into  consideration  all  the 
chances  of  the  future  :  for  it  is  perfectly  safe  for  your 
time,  you  may  be  quite  sure  of  that." 

No  one,  though  he  might  be  ninety,  likes  to  have  hia 
time  limited,  and  his  heir's  prospects  dwelt  upon  as  the 
only  things  of  any  importance,  and  Mrs.  Dennistoun  was 
a  very  long  way  from  ninety.  She  would  have  sacri- 
ficed everything  she  had  to  make  her  child  happy,  but 
she  did  not  like,  all  the  same,  to  be  set  down  as  unim- 
portant so  far  as  her  own  property  was  concerned. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  she  said,  with  a  slight  quaver  in  her 
voice,  "  that  my  trustees  would  not  take  Elinor's  wishes 
into  consideration  in  the  first  place,  nor  yours  either, 
Philip.  They  think  of  me,  and  I  suppose  that  is  really 
their  duly.  If  I  had  anything  of  my  own 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  said,  bluntly,  "  that  with  a 
good  income  and  living  in  the  country  in  a  hole,  in  the 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELIXOB.  207 

most  obscure  way,  von  have  saved  nothing  all  these 
years ?  " 

"  If  I  had,"  said  Mrs.  Denuistouu,  roused  by  his  per- 
sistent attack,  "I  should  be  very  sorry  to  fling  it 
away." 

"  Oh,  that  is  what  you  think  ?  "  he  said.  ''  Now 
we're  at  the  bottom  of  it.  You  think  that  to  put  it  in 
my  hands  would  be  to  throw  it  away  !  I  thought  there 
must  be  something  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  pretty  ig- 
norance of  business  and  so  forth.  Good  gracious  !  that 
may  be  well  enough  for  a  girl ;  but  when  a  grandmother 
pretends  not  to  know,  not  to  interfere,  etc.,  that's  too 
much.  So  this  is  what  you  meant  all  the  time  !  To  put 
it  into  my  hands  would  be  throwing  it  away  !  " 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  say  so,  Philip — I  spoke  hastily, 
but  I  must  remind  you  that  I  am  not  accustomed  to 
this  tone " 

"  Oh,  no,  not  at  all  accustomed  to  it,  you  all  say 
that — that's  Nell's  dodge — never  was  used  to  anything 
of  the  kind,  never  had  a  rough  word  said  to  her,  and 
so  forth  and  so  forth." 

"  Philip — I  hope  you  don't  say  rough  words  to  my 
Elinor." 

"Oh!"  he  said,  "I  have  got  you  there,  have  L 
Your  Elinor — no  more  yours  than  she  is — Johnson's. 
She  is  my  Nell,  and  what's  more,  she'll  cling  to  me, 
whatever  rough  words  I  may  say,  or  however  you  may 
coax  or  wheedle.  Do  you  ever  think  when  you  refuse 
to  make  a  sacrifice  of  one  scrap  of  your  hoards  for  her, 
that  if  I  were  not  a  husband  in  a  hundred  I  might  take 
it  out  of  her  and  make  her  pay  ?  " 

'•For  what'?"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  standing  up 
and  confronting  him,  her  face  pale,  her  head  very  erect 
— "  for  what  would  you  make  her  pay  ?  " 

He  stood  staring  at  her  for  a  moment  and  then  he 
broke  out  into  a  laugh.  "We  needn't  face  each  other 
as  if  we  were  going  to  have  a  stand-up  fight,"  he  said. 
"And  it  wouldn't  be  fair,  mamma,  we're  not  equally 
matched,  the  knowing  ones  would  all  lay  their  money 
u.  So  you  won't  take  my  advice  about  investing 


TUK  M  Mill  I. WE    or   KL1XO.11. 

your  spare  rash  ?  Well,  if  you  won't  you  won't,  and 
there's  an  end  of  it :  only  stand  up  fair  and  don't 
bother  me  with  nonsense  about  trustees." 

"It  is  no  nonsense,"  she  said. 

His  eyes  flashed,  but  he  controlled  himself  and  turned 
away,  waving  his  hand.  "  I'll  not  beat  Nell  for  it  when 
I  come  home  to-night,"  he  said. 

Once  more  Phil  dined  at  his  club  that  evening  and 
Elinor  with  her  mother.  She  WHS  in  an  eager  and  ex- 
cited state,  looking  anxiously  in  Mrs.  Dennistoun's  eyes, 
but  it  was  not  till  late  in  the  evening  that  she  made  any 
remark.  At  last,  just  before  they  parted  for  the 
night,  she  threw  herself  upon  her  mother  with  a  little 
cry — "  Oh,  mamma,  I  know  you  are  right,  I  know  you 
are  quite  right.  But  if  you  could  have  done  it.  it  would 
have  given  you  an  influence  !  I  don't  blame  you — not 
for  a  moment— but  it  might  have  given  you  an  opening 
to  speak.  It  might  have — given  you  a  little  hold  OK 
him." 

"My  darling,  my  darling  !  "  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun. 

"No,"  said  Elinor,  "  there's  nothing  to  pity  me  about, 
nothing  at  all — Phil  is  always  kind  and  good  to  me — 
but  you  would  have  had  a  standing  ground.  It  might 
have  given  you  a  right  to  speak — about  those  dreadful, 
dreadful  city  complications,  mamma." 

Mrs.  Dennistoun  went  to  bed  that  night  a  troubled 
woman,  and  lay  awake  watching  and  expecting  when 
the  usual  midnight  tumult  should  arise.  But  that 
evening  then-  was  none.  No  sound  but  the  key  in  the 
latch,  the  shutting  of  a  door  or  two,  and  all  quiet. 
Compunctions  filled  the  mother's  heart.  What  was 
the  wrong  if,  perhaps,  she  could  satisfy  Elinor,  perhaps 
get  at  the  heart  of  Phil,  who  had  a  heart,  though  it  was 
getting  strangled  in  all  those  intricacies  of  gambling 
and  wretched  business.  She  turned  over  and  over  in 
her  rnind  all  that  she  had,  and  all  that  she  had  any 
power  over.  And  she  remembered  a  small  sum  she  had 
in  a  mortgage,  which  was  after  all  in  her  own  power. 
No  doubt  it  would  be  to  throw  the  money  away,  which 
would  be  so  much  gone  from  the  future  provision  of 


THE  HARHIAnK   O/-'   Kf.l'XOR.  1'fiO 

Elinor — but  if  by  that  means  she  could  acquire  an  in- 
fluence as  Elinor  said — be  allowed  to  speak — to  protest 
or  perhaps  even  insist  upon  a  change  of  cor 
Thinking  over  such  a  question  for  a  whole  sleepless 
night,  and  feeling  beneath  all  that  at  least,  at  worst, 
this  sacrifice  would  give  pleasure  to  Elinor,  which  was 
really  the  one  and  sole  motive,  the  only  thing  that  could 
give  her  any  warrant  for  such  a  proceeding — is  not  a 
process  which  is  likely  to  strengthen  the  mind.  In  the 
morning,  as  soon  as  she  knew  he  was  up,  which  was 
not  till  late  enough,  she  sent  to  ask  if  Phil  would  give 
her  five  minutes  before  he  went  out.  He  appeared  after 
a  while,  extremely  correct  and  point  device,  grave  but 
polite.  "  I  must  ask  you  to  excuse  me,"  he  said,  "  if  I 
am  hurried,  for  to-day  is  one  of  my  Board  days." 

"  It  was  only  to  say,  Philip— you  spoke  to  me  yester- 
day of  money — to  be  invested." 

"  Yes  ?  "  he  said  politely,  without  moving  a  muscle. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  it  all  over,  and  I  remember 
that  there  is  a  thousand  pounds  or  two  which  John 
Tatham  placed  for  me  in  a  mortgage,  and  which  is  in 
my  own  power." 

••  Ah !  "  he  said,  "a  thousand  pounds  or  two,"  with  a 
shrug  of  his  shoulders  ;  "  it  is  scarcely  worth  while,  is  it, 
changing  an  investment  for  so  small  a  matter  as  a  thou- 
sand pounds? " 

"  If  you  think  so,  Philip — it  is  all  I  can  think  of  that 
is  in  my  own  power." 

"  It  is  really  not  worth  the  trouble,"  he  said,  "and  I 
am  in  a  hurry."  He  made  a  step  towards  the  door  and 
then  turned  round  again.  ''Well,"  he  said,  "just  to 
show  there  is  no  ill-feeling,  I'll  find  you  something,  per- 
haps, to  put  your  tuppenceha'penny  in  to-day." 

And  then  there  was  John  Tatham  to  face  after  that ! 


14 


LHU  T11K  NARlil.\r,h   01'    ELINOR. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

IT  cost  Mrs.  Dennistoun  a  struggle  to  yield  to  her 
daughter  and  her  daughter's  husband,  and  with  her 
open  and  no  delusion  on  the  subject  to  throw  a\v;i y 
her  two  thousand  pounds.  Two  thousand  pounds  is  a 
lug  thing  to  throw  away.  There' are  many  people  much 
richer  than  Mrs.  Dennistoun  who  would  have  thought 
it  a  wicked  thing  to  do,  and  some  who  would  have 
quarrelled  with  both  daughter  and  son-in-law  rather 
than  do  so  foolish  a  tiling.  For  it  was  not  merely 
making  a  present,  so  to  speak,  of  the  money,  it  was 
throwing  it  away.  To  have  given  it  to  Elinor  would 
have  been  nothing,  it  would  have  been  a  pleasure  ;  but 
in  Phil's  investment  Mrs.  Dennistoun  had  no  confidence. 
It.  was  throwing  her  money  after  Elinor's  money  into 
that  hungry  sea  which  swallows  up  everything  and 
gives  nothing  again. 

But  if  that  had  been  difficult  for  her,  it  may  be  im- 
agined with  what  feelings  she  contemplated  her  neces- 
sary meeting  witli  JohnTatham.  She  knew  everything 
he  would  say — more,  she  knew  what,  he  would  look  :  his 
astonishment,  his  indignation,  the  amazement  with 
which  he  would  regard  it.  John  was  far  from  being 
incapable  of  a  sacrifice.  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  indeed,  did 
him  more  than  justice  in  that  respect,  for  she  believed 
that  he  had  himself  been  on  the  eve  of  asking  Elinor  to 
marry  him  when  she  was  snatched  up  by,  oh,  so  much 
M'lnry  ,-i  man  !  which  the  reader  knows  is 'not 
quite  the  case,  though  perhaps  it  required  quite  as 
much  self-denial  on  John's  part  to  stand  by  Elinor  and 
maintain  her  cause  under  her  altered  circumstances  as 
if  it  had  been  the  case.  But  notwithstanding  this,  she 
know  that  John  would  be  angry  with  what  she  had 
done  or  promised  to  do,  and  would  put  every  possible 
impediment  in  her  way  :  and  when  she  sent  for  him,  in 
urder  that  she  might  carry  out  her  promise,  it  was  with 


THE  XARKLlfrK   OF  ELIXOR.  211 

a  heart  as  sick  with  fright  and  as  much  disturbed  by 
the  idea  of  a  scolding  as  ever  child's  was. 

John  had  been  very  little  to  the  house  at  Curzon 
Street.  He  had  dined  two  or  three  times  with  Mrs. 
Dennistoun  alone,  and  once  or  twice  Elinor  had  been 
of  the  party  ;  but  the  Comptous  had  never  any  guests 
at  that  house,  and  the  fact  already  mentioned  that 
Philip  Compton  never  dined  at  home  made  it  a  dif- 
ficult matter  for  Mrs.  Dennistoun  to  ask  any  but  her 
oldest  friends  to  the  curious  little  divided  house,  which 
was  neither  hers  nor  theirs.  Thus  Cousin  John  had 
met,  but  no  more,  Elinor's  husband,  and  neither  of  the 
gentlemen  had  shown  the  least  desire  to  cultivate  the 
acquaintance.  John  had  not  expressed  his  sentiments 
on  the  subject  to  any  one,  but  Phil,  as  was  natural,  had 
been  more  demonstrative.  "I  don't  think  much  of 
your  relations,  Nell,"  he  said,  "  if  that's  a  specimen  :  a 
prig  if  ever  there  was  one — and  that  old  sheep  that  was 
at  the  wedding,  the  father  of  him,  I  suppose " 

''As  they  are  my  relations,  Phil,  you  might  speak 
of  them  a  little  more  respectfully." 

"  Oh,  respectfully  !  Bless  us  all !  I  have  no  respect 
for  my  own,  and  why  I  should  have  for  yours,  my  little 
dear,  I  confess  I  can't  see.  Oh,  by  the  way,  this  is 
Cousin  John,  who  I  used  to  think  bv  vour  blushing  and 
all  that " 

"  Phil.  I  think  you  are  trying  to  make  me  angry. 
Cousin  John  is  the  best  man  in  the  world  ;  but  I  never 
blushed — how  ridiculous  !  I  might  as  well  have  blushed 
to  speak  of  my  brother." 

"  I  put  no  confidence  in  brothers,  unless  they're  real 
ones,"  said  Phil  ;  "but  I'm  glad  I've  seen  him,  Nell.  I 
doubt  after  all  that  you're  such  a  fool,  when  you  see  us 
together — eh  ?  "  He  laughed  that  laugh  of  conscious 
superiority  which,  when  it  is  not  perfectly  well-found- 
ed, sounds  so  fatuous  to  the  hearer.  Elinor  did  not 
look  at  him.  She  turned  her  head  away  and  made  no 
reply. 

John,  on  his  part,  as  has  been  said,  made  no  remark. 
If  he  had  possessed  a  wife  at  home  to  whom  he  could 


212  77.' fl   VAKHfA'.tK   OF   ELINOR. 

have  confided  ]jis  sentiments,  as  Phil  Compton  Lad,  it 
is  possible  that  he  might  have  said  something  not  un- 
similar.  But  then  had  he  had  a  wife  at  home  he  would 
been  more  indifferent  to  Phil,  and  might  not  have 
eared  to  criticise  him  at  all. 

Mrs.  Deunistouu  received  him  when  he  came  in  obe- 
dience to  her  call,  as  n  child  might  do  who  had  the 
power  of  receiving  its  future  corrector.  She  abased 
herself  before  him,  servilely  choosing  his  favourite  sub- 
jects, talking-  of  what  she  thought  would  please  him,  of 
former  times  at  the  Cottage,  of  Elinor,  and  her  great 
affection  for  Cousin  John,  and  so  forth.  I  imagine 
that  he  had  a  suspicion  of  the  cause  of  all  this  sweet- 
ness. He  looked  at  her  suspiciously,  though  he  allowed 
himself  to  be  drawn  into  reminiscences,  and  to  feel 
a  half  pleasure,  half  pain  in  the  affectionate  things 
that  Elinor  had  said.  At  length,  after  some  time  had 
••d,  lie  asked,  in  a  pause  of  the  conversation,  "Was 
this  all  you  wanted  with  me,  aunt,  to  talk  of  old  times  ?  " 

1 'Wasn't  it  a  good  enough  pretext  for  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you,  John  ?  " 

He  laughed  a  little  and  shook  his  head. 

'•  An  excellent  pretext  where  none  was  wanted.  It  is 
very  kind  of  you  to  think  it  a  pleasure  :  but  you  had 
something  also  to  say?" 

"  It  seems  there  is  no  deceiving  you,  John,"  she 
said,  and  with  many  hesitations  and  much  difficulty, 
told  him  her  story.  She  saw  him  begin  to  flame.  She 
saw  his  eyes  light  up,  and  Mrs.  Dennistoun  shook  in 
her  chair.  She  was  not  a  woman  apt  to  be  afraid,  but 
she  was  frightened  now. 

Nevertheless,  when  she  had  finished  her  story,  John 
at  first  spoke  no  word  :  and  when  he  did  find  a  tongue 
it  was  only  to  say, 

"  You  want  to  get  back  the  money  you  have  on  that 
mortgage.  My  dear  aunt,  why  did  not  you  tell  me  so 
at  once?  " 

"  -But  I  have  just  told  you,  John." 

"  Well,  so  be  it.  You  know  it  will  take  a  little 
ire  some  formalities  that  must  be  gone 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELISOR.  '21.'! 

through.  You  cannot  make  a  demand  on  people  in 
that  way  to  pay  you  cash  at  once." 

"  Oh,  I  thought  it  was  so  easy  to  get  money — on 
such  very  good  security  and  paying  such  a  good 
adequate  rate  of  interest." 

"  It  is  easy,"  he  said,  "  perfectly  easy  ;  but  it  wants  a 
little  time  :  and  people  will  naturally  wonder,  if  it  is 
really  good  security  and  good  interest,  why  you  should 
be  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  out  of  it." 

'•  But  surely,  to  pay  private  reasons — family  reasons, 
that  will  be  enough.' 

'•  Oh,  there  is  no  occasion  for  giving  any  reason  at 
all.  You  wish  to  do  it ;  that  is  reason  enough." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  with  diffidence,  yet 
also  a  little  self-assertion,  "I  think  it  is  enough." 

"  Of  course,  of  course."  But  his  eyes  were  flaming, 
and  Mrs.  Dennistoun  would  not  allow  herself  to  believe 
that  she  had  got  off.  "  And  may  I  ask — not  that  I  have 
any  right  to  ask,  for  of  course  you  have  better  advisers 
— what  do  you  mean  to  put  the  money  in,  when  you 
have  got  it  back  ?  " 

'•"  Oh,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Denuistoun,  "  you  are  implac- 
able, though  you  pretend  different.  You  know  what  I 
want  with  the  money,  and  you  disapprove  of  it,  and  so 
do  I.  I  am  going  to  throw  it  away.  I  know  that  just 
as  well  as  you  do,  and  I  am  a'shamed  of  myself  :  but  I 
am  going  to  do  it  all  the  same." 

"You  are  going  to  give  it  to  Elinor?  I  don't  think 
there  is  anything  to  disapprove  of  in  that.  It  is  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world." 

"  If  I  could  be  sure  that  Elinor  would  get  any  good 
by  it,"  she  said. 

And  then  his  face  suddenly  blazed  up,  so  that  the 
former  flame  in  his  eyes  was  nothing.  He  sat  for  a 
moment  staling  at  her,  and  then  he  said,  "Yes,  if— but 
I  suppose  you  take  the  risk."  There  were  a  great 
many  things  on  his  lips  to  say,  but  he  said  none  of 
them,  except  hurriedly,  "  You  have  a  motive,  I  sup- 
pose  " 

"  I  have  a  motive — as  futile  probably  as  my  act-^-if  I 


214  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

could  by  that  means,  or  any  other,  acquire  an  in- 
fluence  " 

John  was  very  seldom,  if  ever,  rude — it  was  not  in 
his  way — but  at  this  moment  he  was  so  bitterly  exas- 
perated that  he  forgot  his  manners  altogether.  He 
burst  out  into  a  loud  laugh,  and  then  he  jumped  up  to 
his  feet  and  said,  "  Forgive  me.  I  really  have  a  dozen 
engagements.  I  can't  stay.  I'll  see  to  having  this 
business  done  for  you  as  soon  as  possible.  You  would 
rather  old  Lynch  had  no  hand  in  it  ?  I'll  get  it  done 
for  you  at  once." 

She  followed  him  out  to  the  door  as  if  they  had  been 
in  the  country,  and  that  the  flowery  cottage  door,  with 
the  great  world  of  down  and  sky  outside,  instead  of 
Curzou  Street :  longing  to  say  something  that  would 
still,  at  the  last  moment,  gain  her  John's  approval,  or 
his  understanding  at  least.  But  slie  could  think  of 
nothing  to  say.  He  had  promised  to  manage  it  all  for 
her  :  he  had  not  reproached  her  ;  and  yet  not  content 
with  that  she  wanted  to  extort  a  favourable  word  from 
him  before  he  should  go.  But  she  could  not  find  a 
word  to  say.  He  it  was  only  who  spoke.  He  asked 
when  she  was  going  to  return  home,  with  his  hand 
upon  the  street  door. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  have  not  made  any  plans.  The 
house  is  taken  till  July." 

'•And  y°u  have  enjoyed  it?"  he  said.  "  It  has  an- 
swered ?  " 

What  a  cruel,  cruel  question  to  put  to  her !  She 
going  so  unsuspectingly  with  him  to  the  very  door  ! 
Philip  Comptou's  servant,  always  about  when  he  was 
not  wanted,  spying  about  to  see  whom  it  was  that 
"  down-stairs"  was  letting  out,  came  strolling  into 
sight.  Anyhow,  whether  that  was  the  reason  or  not,  she 
m;u!»'  him  no  reply.  He  caught  her  look — a  look  that 
said  more  than  words — and  turned  round  quickly  and 
held  out  his  hand.  "I  did  not  mean  to  be  cruel,"  he 
said. 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no — you  did  not  mean  it — you  were 
not  cruel.  The  reverse — you  are  always  so  kind.  Yes, 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  215 

it  has  answered — I  am  more  glad  than  I  can  tell  you — 
that  I  came." 

He  it  was  now  that  looked  at  her  anxiously,  while  she 
smiled  that  well-worn  smile  which  is  kept  for  people  in 
trouble.  She  went  in  afterwards  and  sat  silent  for  some 
time,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands ;  in  which  atti- 
tude Elinor  found  her  after  her  afternoon  visitors  had 
gone  away." 

"What  is  it,  mother?  What  is  it,  dear  mother? 
Something  has  happened  to  vex  you." 

"  Nothing,  nothing,  Elinor.  John  Tatham  has  been 
here.  He  is  going  to  do  that  little  piece  of  business 
for  me." 

"  And    he  —  has    been    bullying    you    too?    poor 


mamma 


'  On  the  contrary,  he  did  not  say  a  word.  He  con- 
sidered it — quite  natural." 

Elinor  gave  her  mother  a  kiss.  She  had  nothing  to 
say.  Neither  of  them  had  a  word  to  say  to  the  other. 
The  thought  that  passed  through  both  their  minds 
was:  "After  all  it  is  only  two  thousand  pounds" — 
and  then,  apres?  was  Elinor's  thought.  And  then, 
never  more,  never  more!  was- what  passed  through  Mrs. 
Dennistoun's  mind. 

Phil  Compton  smiled  upon  her  that  day  she  handed 
him  over  the  money.  "  It  is  a  great  pity  you  took  the 
trouble,"  he  said.  "It  is  a  pity  to  change  an  invest- 
ment for  such  a  bagatelle  as  two  thousand  pounds. 
»5fcill,  if  you  insist  upon  it,  mamma.  I  suppose  Nell's 
been  bragging  of  the  big  interest,  but  you  never  will 
feel  it  on  a  scrap  like  this.  If  you  would  let  me  double 
your  income  for  you  now." 

"You  know,  Philip,  I  cannot.  The  trustees  would 
never  consent." 

"Bother  trustees.  They  are  the  ruin  of  women," 
he  said,  and  as  he  left  the  room  he  turned  back  to  ask 
her  how  long  she  was  going  to  stay  in  town. 

"  How  long  do  you  stay  ?  " 

'  Oh,  till  Goodwood  always,"  said  Phil.  "  Nell's 
looking  forward  to  it,  and  there's  generally  some  good 


Till-:   MARRIAGE  OF   ELINOR. 

things  just  at  the  cud  when  the  heavy  people  have  gone 
;i\vav ;  but  I  thought  you  might  not  care  to  stay  so 
long." 

"I  (tame  not  for  town,  but  for  Elinor,  Philip." 

"  Exactly  so.     But  don't  you  think  Elinor  has  shown 

•if  quite  able  to  take  care  of  herself — not  to  say 

that  she  has  me?     It's  a  thousand  pities  to  keep  you 

from  the  country  which  you  prefer,  especially  as,  after 

all,  Nell  can  be  so  little  with  you." 

"It  would  be  much  better  for  her  at  present,  Philip, 
to  come  with  me,  and  rest  at  home,  while  you  go  to 
Goodwood.  For  the  sake  of  the  future  you  ought  to 
persuade  her  to  do  it." 

"I  daresay.  Try  yourself  to  persuade  her  to  leave 
me.  She  won't,  you  know.  But  why  should  you  bore 
yourself  to  death  staying  on  here?  You  don't  like  it, 
and  nobody " 

"Wants  mo,  you  mean,  Philip." 

"I  never  said  anything  so  dashed  straightforward. 
I  am  not  a  chap  of  that  kind.  But  what  I  say  is,  it's  a 
shame  to  keep  you  hanging  on,  disturbed  in  your  rest 
and  nil  that  sort  of  thing.  That  noisy  beggar,  Dismar, 
that,  camo  in  with  UK  last  night  must  have  woke  you  up 
with  his  idiotic  bellowing." 

"  It  doesn't  matter  for  me  ;  but  Elinor,  Philip.  It 
docs  matter  for  your  wife.  If  her  rest  is  broken  it  will 
upon  her  in  every  way.  I  wish  you  would  con- 
sent to  forego  those  visitors  in  the  middle  of  the 
night." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  satirical  indifference. 
"Sorry  I  can't  oblige  you,"  he  said.  "When  a  girl's 
friends  fork  out  handsomely  a  man  has  some  reason  for 
paying  a  little  attention.  But  when  there's  nothing,  or 
next  to  nothing,  on  her  side,  why  of  course  he  must 
pick  up  a  little  where  he  can,  as  much  for  her  sake  as 
his  own." 

"  Pick  up  a  little  !  "  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  repeat  what  I  say  like  that. 
It  makes  a  fellow  nervous.  Tes,  of  course,  a  man  that 
knows  what  lie's  about  does  pick  up  a  little.  About 


THE  VARRIAGK   OF   ELINOR.  217 

your  movements,  however.  I  advise  you  to  take  iny 
advice  and  go  back  to  your  snug  little  house.  It 
would  kill  me  in  a  week,  but  I  know  it  suits  you. 
Why  hang  on  for  Xell  ?  She's  as  well  as  can  be,  and 
there's  a  few  things  that  it  would  be  good  for  us 
to  do." 

"Which  you  cannot  do  while  I  am  here?  Is  that 
what  you  mean,  Philip  ?  " 

"I  never  saw  any  good  in  being  what  the  French 
call  brutal,"  he  said,  "I  hate  making  a  woman  cry,  or 
that  sort  of  thing.  But  you're  a  woman  of  sense,  and 
I'm  sure  you  must  see  that  a  young  couple  like  XelJ 
and  me,  who  have  our  way  to  make  in  the  world " 

"  You  know  it  was  for  her  sake  entirely  that  I  came 
here." 

"Yes,  oh,  yes.  To  do  coddling  and  that  sort  of 
thing— which  she  doesn't  require  a  bit ;  but  if  I  must 
be  brutal  you  know  there's  things  of  much  conse- 
quence we  could  do  if " 

"  If  what,  Philip  ?  " 

••  Well,"  lie  said,  turning  on  his  heel,  "if  we  had  the 
house  to  ourselves." 

This  was  the  influence  Mrs.  Dennistoun  hoped  to  ac- 
quire by  the  sacrifice  of  her  two  thousand  pounds ! 
When  he  was  gone,  instead  of  covering  her  face  as  she 
had  done  when  John  left  hei1,  Mrs.  Denuistouu  stared 
into  the  vacant  air  for  a  minute  and  then  she  burst 
into  a  laugh.  It  was  not  a  mirthful  laugh,  it  may  be 
supposed,  or  harmonious,  and  it  startled  her  as  she 
heard  it  pealing  into  the  silence.  Whether  it  was  loud 
enough  to  wake  Elinor  up- stairs,  or  whether  she  was 
already  close  by  and  heard  it,  I  cannot  tell,  but  she 
came  in  with  a  little  tap  at  the  door  and  a  smile,  a 
somewhat  anxious  and  forced  smile,  it  is  true,  upon 
her  face. 

"  What  is  the  joke?"  she  said.  "I  heard  you  laugh, 
and  I  thought  I  might  come  in  and  share  the  fun. 
Somehow,  we  don't  have  so  much  fun  as  we  used  to 
have.  What  is  it,  mamma?" 

"It  is  only  a  witticism  of  Philip's,  who  has  been  in 


21S  THE  MAURI  Ad  E   OF   ELTXOR. 

to  see  me,"  said  Mrs.  Deimistoun.  "I  won't  repeat  it, 
for  probably  I  should  lose  the  point  of  it — you  know  I 
always  did  spoil  a  joke  in  repeating  it.  I  have  been 
speaking  to  him,"  she  said,  after  a  little  pause,  during 
which  both  her  laugh  and  Elinor's  smile  evaporated  in 
the  most  curious  way,  leaving  both  of  them  very  grave 
— "of  going  away,  Elinor." 

"  Of  going  away !  "  Elinor  suddenly  assumed  a 
startled  look  ;  but  there  is  a  difference  between  doing 
that  and  being  really  startled,  which  her  mother,  alas! 
was  quite  enlightened  enough  to  see  ;  and  surely  once 
more  there  was  that  mingled  relief  and  relaxation  in 
the  lines  of  her  face  which  Mrs.  Dennistoun  had  seen 
before. 

"Yes,  my  darling,"  she  said,  "it  is  June,  and  every- 
thing at  the  Cottage  will  be  in  full  beauty.  And,  per- 
haps, it  would  do  you  more  good  to  come  down  there 
for  a  day  or  two  when  there  is  nothing  doing  than  to 
have  me  here,  which,  after  all,  has  not  been  of  very 
much  use  to  you." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that,  mamma.  Use  ! — it  has  been  of 
comfort  unspeakable.  But,"  Elinor  added,  hurriedly, 
"I  see  the  force  of  all  you  say.  To  remain  in  London 
at  this  time  of  the  year  must  be  a  far  greater  sacrifice 
than  I  have  any  right  to  ask  of  you,  mamma." 

Oh,  the  furtive,  hurried,  unreal  words !  which  were 
such  pain  and  horror  to  say  with  the  consciousness  of 
the  true  sentiment  lying  underneath  ;  which  made  Eli- 
nor's heart  sink,  yet  were  brought  forth  with  a  sort  of 
hateful  fervour,  to  imitate  truth. 

Mrs.  Dennistoun  saw  it  all.  There  are  times -when 
the  understanding  of  such  a  woman  is  almost  equal  to 
those  "larger  other  eyes"  A\  it h  which  it  is  our  fond 
hope  those  who  have  left  us  for  a  better  country  see,  if 
they  are  permitted  to  see,  our  petty  doings,  knowing, 
better  than  we  know  ourselves,  what  excuses,  what  ex- 
planations, they  are  capable  of.  "As  for  the  sacrifice," 
slic  said,  ••  we  \\ill  say  nothing  of  that,  Elinor.  It  is  a 
vain  iliing  to  say  that  if  my  life  would  do  you  any 
you  don't  want  to  take  my  life,  and  prob- 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  211) 

ably  the  best  thing  I  can  do  for  you  is  to  go  on  as  long 
as  I  can.  But  in  the  meantime  there's  no  question  at 
all  of  sacrifice — and  if  you  can  come  down  now  and 

then  for  a  day,  and  sleep  in  the  fresh  air " 

"I  will,  I  will,  mamma,"  said  Elinor,  hiding  her  face 
on  her  mother's  shoulder  ;  and  they  would  have  been 
something  more  than  women  if  they  had  not  cried  to- 
gether as  they  held  each  other  in  that  embrace — in 
which  there  was  so  much  more  than  met  either  eye  or 
ear. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

IT  was  .about  the  10th  of  June  when  Mrs.  Dennistoun 
left  London.  Sue  had  been  in  town  for  about  five 
weeks,  which  looked  like  as  many  months,  and  it  was 
with  a  mingled  sense  of  relief,  and  of  that  feeling  which 
is  like  death  in  the  heart,  the  sense  of  nothing  further 
to  be  done,  of  the  end  of  opportunity,  the  conclusion  of 
all  power  to  help,  which  sometimes  comes  over  an  anx- 
ious mind,  without  in  any  respect  diminishing  the  anx- 
iety, giving  it  indeed  a  depth  and  pang  beyond  any 
other  feeling  that  is  known  to  the  heart  of  man.  What 
could  she  do  more  for  her  child?  Nothing.  It  was 
her  only  policy  to  remain  away,  not  to  see,  certainly 
not  to  remark  anything  that  was  happening,  to  wait  if 
perhaps  the  moment  might  come  when  she  would  be  of 
use,  and  to  hope  that  perhaps  that  moment  might  never 
need  to  come,  that  by  some  wonderful  turn  of  affairs 
all  might  yet  go  well  She  went  back  to  "\Vindyhill 
with  the  promise  of  a  visit  "  soon,"  Philip  himself  had 
said — in  the  pleasure  of  getting  the  house,  which  was 
her  house,  which  she  had  paid  for  and  provisioned,  to 
himself  for  his  own  uses.  Mrs.  Dennistoun  could  not 
help  hearing  through  her  maid  something  of  the  fes- 
tivities which  were  in  prospect  after  she  was  gone,  the 
dinners  and  gay  receptions  at  which  she  would  have 
been  de  trap.  She  did  not  wish  to  hear  of  them,  but 


L'-JO  THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR. 

these  are  things  that  will  make  themselves  known,  and 
Mrs.  Dennistoun  had  to  face  the  fact  that  Elinor  was 
more  or  less  consenting  to  the  certainly  of  her  mother 
being  de  trop,  which  gave  her  a  momentary  pang.  But 
after  all,  what  did  it  matter '?  It  was  not  her  fault, 
poor  child.  I  have  known  a  loving  daughter  in  whose 
mind  there  was  a  sentiment  almost  of  relief  amid  her 
deep  grief  when  her  tender  mother  died.  Could  such  a 
thing  be  possible  ?  It  was;  because  after  then,  how- 
ever miserable  she  might  be,  there  was  no  conflict  over 
her,  no  rending  of  the  strained  heart  both  ways.  A 
woman  who  has  known  life  learns  to  understand  and 
forgive  a  great  many  things ;  and  Mrs.  Dennistoun  for- 
gave her  Elinor,  her  only  child,  for  whose  happiness  she 
had  lived,  in  that  she  was  almost  glad  when  her  mother 
went  away. 

Such  things,  however,  do  not  make  a  lonely  little 
house  in  the  country  more  cheerful,  or  tend  to  make  it 
easier  to  content  one's  self  with  the  Rector's  family, 
and  the  good  old,  simple-minded,  retired  people,  with 
their  little  complaints,  yet  general  peacefulness,  and  in- 
competence to  understand  what  tragedy  was.  They 
thought  on  the  whoLe  their  neighbour  at  the  Cottage 
ought  to  be  very  thankful  that  she  had  got  her  daugh- 
ter well,  or,  if  not  very  well,  at  least  fashionably,  mar- 
ried, with  good  connections  and  all  that,  which  are 
always  of  use  in  the  long  run.  It  was  better  than 
marrying  a  poor  curate,  which  was  almost  the  only 
chance  a  girl  had  on  "Windyhill. 

It  was  a  little  hard  upon  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  however, 
that  she  lost  not  only  Elinor,  but  John,  who  had- been 
so  good  about  coming  down  when  she  was  all  alone  at 
first.  Of  course,  during  the  season,  a  young  rising 
man,  with  engagements  growing  upon  him  every  day, 
was  very  unlikely  to  have  his  Saturdays  to  Mondays 
free.  So  many  people  live  out  of  town  nowadays,  or, 
at  least,  have  a  little  house  somewhere  to  which  they 
go  from  Saturday  to  Monday,  taking  their  friends  with 
them.  This  was  no  doubt  the  reason  why  John  never 
came  ;  and  yet  the  poor  lady  suspected  another  reason, 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  221 

and  though  she  no  longer  laughed  as  she  had  done  on 
that  occasion  when  the  Honourable  Phil  gave  her  her 
dismissal,  a  smile  would  conie  over  her  face  sometimes 
when  she  reflected  that  with  her  two  thousand  pounds 
she  had  purchased  the  hostility  of  both  Philip  and  John. 
John  Tatham  was  indeed  exceedingly  angry  with  her 
for  the  weakness  with  which  she  had  yielded  to  Phil 
Compton's  arguments,  though  indeed  he  knew  nothing 
of  Phil  Compton's  arguments,  nor  whether  they  had 
been  exercised  at  all  on  the  woman  who  was  first  of  all 
Elinor's  mother  and  ready  to  sacrifice  everything  to  her 
comfort.  When  he  found  that  this  foolish  step  on  her 
part  hud  been  followed  by  her  retirement  from  Lon- 
don, he  was  greaily  mystified  and  quite  unable  to  un- 
derstand. He  met  Elinor  some  time  after  at  one  of 
those  assemblies  to  which  "everybody  "  goes.  It  was, 
I  think,  the  soiree  at  the  Royal  Academy — where  amid 
the  persistent  crowd  in  the  great  room  there  was  a 
whirling  crowd,  twisting  in  and  out  among  the  others, 
bound  for  heaven  knows  how  many  other  places,  and 
pausing  here  and  there  on  tiptoe  to  greet  an  acquaint- 
ance, at  the  tail  of  which,  carried  along  by  its  impetus, 
was  Elinor.  She  was  not  looking  either  well  or  happy, 
but  she  was  responding  more  or  less  to  the  impulse  of 
her  set,  exchanging  greetings  and  banal  words  with 
dozens  of  people,  and  sometimes  turning  a  wistful  and 
weary  gaze  towards  the  pictures  on  the  walls,  as  if  she 
would  gladly  escape  from  the  mob  of  her  companions 
to  them,  or  anywhere.  It  was  no  impulse  of  taste  or 
artistic  feeling,  however,  it  is  to  be  feared,  but  solely 
the  weariness  of  her  mind.  John  watched  her  for  some 
time  before  he  approached  her.  Phil  was  not  of  the 
party,  which  was  nothing  extraordinary,  for  little  seri- 
ous as  that  assembly  is,  it  was  still  of  much  too  serious 
a  kind  for  Phil  ;  but  Lady  Mariamue  was  there,  and 
other  ladies  with  whom  Elinor  was  in  the  habit  of  pur- 
suing that  gregarious  hunt  after  pleasure  which  carries 
the  train  of  votaries  along  at  so  breakneck  a  price,  and 
with  so  little  time  to  enjoy  the  pleasure  they  are  pur- 
suing. When  he  saw  indications  that  the  stream  waa 


222  THE  MARRIAGE   OF   ELIXOE. 

setting  backwards  to  the  entrance,  again  to  separate 
and  tp,ke  its  various  ways  to  other  entertainments,  he 
broke  into  the  throng  and  called  Elinor's  attention  to 
himself.  For  a  moment  she  smiled  with  genuine 
pleasure  at  the  sight  of  him,  but  then  changed  her  as- 
pect almost  imperceptibly.  "  Oh,  John  !  "  she  said 
with  that  smile  :  but  immediately  looked  towards  Lady 
Mariamue,  as  if  undecided  what  to  do. 

"  You  need  not  look  —  as  if  I  would  try  to  detain  you, 
Elinor." 

"Do  you  think  I  am  afraid  of  your  detaining  me? 
I  thought  I  should  be  sure  to  meet  you  to-night,  and 
was  on  the  outlook.  How  is  it  that  we  never  see  you 
now?  " 

He  refused  the  natural  retort  that  she  had  never 
asked  to  see  him,  and  only  said,  with  a  smile,  "I  hear 
my  aunt  is  gone." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  only  came  for  her  V 
That  is  an  unkind  speech.  Yes,  she  has  gone.  It  was 
cruel  to  keep  her  in  town  for  the  best  part  of  the  year." 

"But  she  intended  to  stay  till  July,  Elinor." 

"Did  she?  I  think  you  are  mistaken,  John.  She 
intended  to  watch  over  me  —  dear  mamma,  she  thinks 
too  much  of  me  —  but  when  she  saw  that  I  was  quite 


"  You  don't  look  to  me  so  extraordinarily  well." 

"Don't  I?  I  must  be  a  fraud  then.  Nobody  could 
be  stronger.  I'm  going  to  a  multitude  of  places  to- 
night. Wherever  my  Hebrew  leader  goes  I  go,"  said 
Elinor,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  have  given  myself  up  for  to- 
night, and  she  is  never  satisfied  with  less  than  a 
dozen." 

"Ten  minutes  to  each." 

"  Oh,  half  an  hour  at  least  :  and  with  having  our  car- 
riage found  for  us  at  every  place,  and  the  risk  of  get- 
ting into  a  (jiil'iH',  and  all  the  delays  of  coming  and 
going,  it  cannot  be  much  less  than  three-quarters  of  an 
hour.  This  is  the  third.  I  think  three  more  will  weary 
even  the  Jew." 

"You  are  with  Lady  Mariamne  then,  Elinor  ?" 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  223 

"  Yes — oh,  you  need  not  make  that  face.  She  is  as 
good  as  the  rest,  and  pretends  to  nothing,  at  least.  1 
have  no  carriage,  you  know,  and  Phil  took  fright  at  my 
dear  old  fly.  lie  thought  a  hired  brougham  was  not 
good  when  I  was  alone." 

"That  was  quite  true.  Nevertheless,  I  should  like 
above  all  things  to  keep  you  here  a  little  longer  to  look 
at  some  of  the  pictures,  and  take  you  home  in  a  hansom 
after." 

She  laughed.  "  Oh,  so  should  I — fancy,  I  have  not 
seen  the  pictures,  not  at  all.  We  came  in  a  mob  to 
the  private  view  ;  and  then  one  day  I  was  coming  with 

mamma,  but  was  stopped  by  something,  and  now • 

Always  people,  people — nothing  else.  '  Did  you  see 
So-and-so?  There's  some  one  bowing  to  you,  Nell, 
ire  you  speak  a  word  to  the  Thises  or  the  Thats  ' 
— while  I  don't  care  for  one  of  them.  But  I  fear  the 
hansom  would  not  do,  John." 

"  It  would  have  done  very  well  in  the  old  days. 
Your  mother  would  not  have  been  displeased." 

"The  old  days  are  gone  and  will  never  return,"  she 
said,  half  sad,  half  smiling,  shaking  her  head.  "  So  far 
as  I  can  see,  nothing  ever  returns.  You  have  your 
day,  and  if  you  do  not  make  the  best  of  that " 

She  stopped,  shaking  her  head  again  with  a  laugh, 
and  there  were  various  ways  in  which  that  speech 
might  be  interpreted.  John  for  one  knew  a  sense  of 
it  which  he  believed  had  never  entered  Elinor's  head. 
He  too  might  have  had  his  day  and  let  it  slip.  "So 
you  are  making  the  most  of  yours,"  he  said.  "I  hear 
that  you  are  very  gay." 

Elinor  coloured  high  under  his  look.  "I  don't 
know  who  can  have  told  you  that.  We  have  had  a  few 
little  dinners  since  mamma  left  us,  chiefly  Phil's  busi- 
ness friends.  I  would  not  have  them  while  she  was 
with  us — that  is  to  say,  to  be  honest,"  cried  Elinor, 
"while  we  were  with  her:  which  of  course  was  the  real 
state  of  the  case.  I  myself  don't  like  those  people, 
John,  but  they  would  have  been  insupportable  to 
uuamma.  It  was  for  her  sake " 


L'24  Till:   MAWIIAUE   01-'  ELINOR. 

"I  understand,"  he  said. 

"  Ob,  but  you  must  not  say  '  I  understand. '  with  that 
air  of  knowing  a  great  deal  more  than  there  is  to  un- 
derstand," she  said,  with  heat.  "Mamma  said  it  would 
do  me  much  more  good  to  go — home  for  a  night  now 
and  then  and  sleep  in  the  fresh  air  than  for  her  to  stay  ; 
and  though  I  think  she  is  a  little  insane  on  the  subject 
of  my  health,  still  it  was  certainly  better  than  that  she 
should  stay  here,  making  herself  wretched,  her  rest 
broken,  and  all  that.  You  know  we  keep  such  late 
hours." 

"  I  should  not  have  thought  she  would  have  minded 
that." 

"  But  what  would  you  have  thought  of  me  if  I  did 
not  mind  it  for  her?  There,  John,  do  you  see  they 
are  all  going?  Ah,  the  pictures!  I  wish  I  could  have 
stayed  with  you  and  gone  round  the  rooms.  But  it 
must  not  be  to-night.  Come  and  see  me  !  "  she  said, 
turning  round  to  him  with  a  smile,  and  holding  out  her 
hand. 

"  I  would  gladly,  Elinor — but  should  not  I  find  my- 
self in  the  way  of  your  fine  friends  like " 

He  had  not  the  heart  to  finish  the  sentence  when  he 
met  her  eyes  brimming  full  of  tears. 

"  Not  my  fine  friends,  but  my  coarse  friends,"  she 
said  ;  "  not  friends  at  all,  our  worst  enemies,  I  am 
sure." 

"  Xell !  "  cried  Lady  Marianme,  in  her  shrill  voice. 

"  You  will  come  and  see  me,  John  ?  " 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "and  in  the  meantime  I  will  take 
you  down-stairs,  let  your  companions  think  as  they 
please." 

It  proved  when  he  did  so  that  John  had  to  escort 
both  ladies  to  the  carriage,  which  it  was  not  very  easy 
to  find,  no  other  cavalier  being  at  hand  for  the  mo- 
ment ;  and  that  Lady  Marianme  invited  him  to  ac- 
company them  to  their  next  stage.  "  You  know  the 
Durfords,  of  course.  You  are  going  there?  "What 
luck  for  us,  Nell !  Jump  in,  Mr.  Tatham,  we  will  take 
you  on." 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR.  225 

"  Unfortunately  Lady  Durford  has  not  taken  the 
trouble  to  invite  me,"  said  John. 

"  What  does  that  matter '?  Jump  in,  all  the  same, 
she'll  be  delighted  to  see  you,  and  as  for  not  asking  you, 
when  you  are  with  me  and  Nell " 

But  John  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  this  siren's  song. 

He  went  to  Curzon  Street  a  little  while  after  to  call, 
as  he  had  been  invited  to  do,  and  went  late  to  avoid  the 
bustle  of  the  tea-table,  and  the  usual  rabble  of  that  no 
longer  intimate  but  wildly  gregarious  house.  And  he 
was  not  without  his  reward.  Perhaps  a  habit  he  had 
lately  formed  of  passing  by  Curzon  Street  in  the  late 
afternoon,  when  he  was  on  his  way  to  his  club,  after 
work  was  over,  had  something  to  do  with  his  choice  of 
this  hour.  He  found  Elinor,  as  he  had  hoped,  alone. 
She  was  sitting  so  close  to  the  window  that  her  white 
dress  mingled  with  the  white  curtains,  so  that  he  did 
not  at  first  perceive  her,  and  so  much  abstracted  in  her 
own  thoughts  that  she  did  not  pay  any  attention  to  the 
servant's  hurried  murmur  of  his  name  at  the  door. 
When  she  felt  rather  than  saw  that  there  was  some  one 
in  the  room,  Elinor  jumped  up  with  a  shock  of  alarm 
that  seemed  unnecessary  iu  her  own  drawing-rooin  ; 
then  seeing  who  it  was,  was  so  much  and  so  suddenly 
moved  that  she  shed  a  few  tears  in  some  sudden  revul- 
sion of  feeling  as  she  said,  "  Oh,  it  is  you,  John  !" 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "but  I  am  very  sorry  to  see  you  so 
nervous. " 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing.  I  was  always  nervous  " — which 
indeed  was  the  purest  invention,  for  Elinor  Dennistoun 
had  not  known  what  nerves  meant.  "I  mean  I  was 
always  startled  by  any  sudden  entrance — iu  this  way," 
she  cried,  and  very  gravely  asked  him  to  be  seated, 
with  a  curious  assumption  of  dignity.  Her  demeanour 
altogether  was  incomprehensible  to  John. 

"I  hope, "lie  said,  "you  were  not  displeased  with 
me,  Elinor,  for  going  off  the  other  night.  I  should 
have  been  too  happy,  you  know,  to  go  with  you  any- 
where ;  but  Lady  Mariamne  is  more  than  I  can  stand." 

"  I  was  very  glad  you  did  not  conie,"  she  said. 
15 


iiit>  THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELISOR. 

with  a  sigh  ;  then  smiling  faintly,  "  But  you  were  un- 
grateful, for  Mariamue  formed  a  most  favourable  opinion 
of  you.  She  said,  '  Why  didn't  you  tell  me,  Nell,  you 
had  a  cousin  so  presentable  as  that  ?  '  * 

"  I  am  deeply  obliged,  Elinor ;  but  it  seems  that 
what  was  a  compliment  to  me  personally  involved  some- 
thing the  reverse  for  your  other  relations." 

"It  is  one  of  their  jokes,"  said  Elinor,  with  a  voice 
that  faltered  a  little,  "  to  represent  my  relations  as — 
not  in  a  complimentary  way.  I  am  supposed  not  to 
mind,  and  it's  all  a  joke,  or  so  they  tell  me  ;  but  it  is 
not  a  joke  I  like,"  she  said,  with  a  flash  from  her  eyes. 

"All  families  have  jokes  of  that  description,"  said 
John  ;  "  but  tell  me,  Nelly,  are  you  really  going  down 
to  the  cottage,  to  your  mother  ?  " 

Her  eyes  thanked  him  with  a  gleam  of  pleasure  for 
the  old  familiar  name,  and  then  the  light  went  out  of 
them.  "I  don't  know,"  she  said,  abruptly.  "  Phil  was 
to  come  ;  if  he  will  not,  I  think  I  will  not  either.  But 
I  will  say  nothing  till  I  make  sure." 

"Of  course  yoUr  first  duty  is  to  him,"  said  John  ; 
"'but  a  day  now  or  a  day  then  interferes  with  nothing, 
and  the  country  would  be'good  for  you,  Elinor.  Doesn't 
vour  husband  see  it?  You  are  not  looking  like  your- 
self." 

"  Not  like  myself  ?  I  might  easily  look  better  than 
myself.  I  wish  I  could.  I  am  not  so  bigoted  about 
myself." 

"Your  friends  are,  however,"  he  said  :  "no  one  who 
cares  for  you  wants  to  change  you,  even  for  another 
Elinor.  Come,  you  are  nervous  altogether  to-night,  not 
like  yourself,  as  I  told  you.  You  always  so  courageous 
and  bright !  This  depressed  state  is  not  one  of  your 
moods.  London  is  too  much  for  you,  my  little  Nelly." 

"  Your  little  Nellie  has  gone  away  somewhere  John. 
I  doubt  if  she'll  ever  come  back.  Yes,  London  is  rather 
too  much  for  me,  I  think.  It's  such  a  racket,  as  Phii 
suvs.  But  then  he's  used  to  it,  you  know.  He  wa* 
brought  up  to  it,  whereas  I — I  think  I  hate  a  rackev 
John — and  they  all  like  it  so.  They  prefer  never  hav- 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  227 

ing  a  moment  to  themselves.  I  daresay  one  would 
end  by  being  just  the  same.  It  keeps  you  from  think- 
ing, that  is  one  very  good  thing." 

"  You  used  not  to  think  so,  Elinor." 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  not  at  the  Cottage  among  the 
flowers,  where  nothing  ever  happened  from  one  year's 
end  to  another.  I  should  die  of  it  now  in  a  week — at 
least  if  not  I,  those  who  belong  to  me.  So  on  the 
whole  perhaps  London  is  the  safest — unless  Phil  will 
go." 

"  I  can  only  hope  you  will  be  able  to  persuade  him," 
said  John,  rising  to  go  away,  "  for  whatever  you  may 
think,  you  are  a  country  bird,  and  you  want  the  fresh 
air." 

"Are  you  going,  John?  Well,  perhaps  it  is  better. 
Good-by.  Don't  trouble  your  mind  about  me  whether 
I  go  or  stay." 

"  Do  you  mean  I  am  not  to  come  again,  Elinor  ?  " 

"  Oh,  why  should  I  mean  that?"  she  said.  "You 
are  so  hard  upon  me  in  your  thoughts  ;  "  but  she  did 
not  say  that  he  was  wrong,  and  John  went  out  from  the 
door  saying  to  himself  that  he  would  not  go  again.  He 
saw  through  the  open  door  of  the  dining-room  that  the 
table  was  prepai'ed  sumptuously  for  a  dinner-party. 
It  was  shining  with  silver  and  crystal,  the  silver  Mrs. 
Dennistoun's  old  service,  which  she  had  brought  up 
with  her  from  Windyhill,  and  which  as  a  matter  of 
convenience  she  had  left  behind  with  her  daughter. 
Would  it  ever,  he  wondered,  see  Windyhill  again  ? 

He  went  on  to  his  club,  and  there  some  one  began  to 
amuse  him  with  an  account  of  Lady  Durford's  ball,  to 
which  Lady  Mariamne  had  wished  to  take  him.  "  Are 
not  those  Comptons  relations  of  yours,  Tatham  ?  "  he 
said. 

"Connections,"  said  John,   "by  marriage." 

"  I'm  very  glad  that's  all.  They  are  a  queer  lot. 
Phil  Compton  you  know — the  dis-Honourable  Phil,  as  he 
used  to  be  called — but  I  hear  he's  turned  over  a  new 
leaf " 

"  What  of  him  ?  "  said  John. 


228  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

"  Ob,  nothing  much  :  only  that  lie  was  flirting  des- 
perately all  the  evening  with  n  Mrs.  Harris,  an  Ameri- 
can widow.  I  believe  he  came  with  her — and  his  own 
wife  there — much  younger,  much  prettier,  a  beautiful 
young  creature — looking  on  with  astonishment  You 
could  see  her  eyes  growing  bigger  and  bigger.  If  it 
had  not  been  kind  of  amusing  to  a  looker-on,  it  would 
be  the  most  pitiful  sight  in  the  world." 

"  I  advise  you  not  to  let  yourself  be  amused  by  such 
trifles,"  said  John  Tatham,  with  a  look  of  fire  and 
flame. 


CHAPTER  XXm. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Elinor  did  not  go  to  the  Cottage 
for  the  fresh  air  or  anything  else.  She  made  one  hur- 
ried run  in  the  afternoon  to  bid  her  mother  good-by, 
alone,  which  was  not  a  visit,  but  the  mere  pretence  of  a 
visit,  hurried  and  breathless,  in  which  there  was  no 
time  to  talk  of  anything.  She  gave  Mrs.  Dennistoun  an 
account  of  the  usual  lists  of  visits  that  her  husband  and 
she  were  to  make  in  the  autumn,  which  the  mother, 
witli  the  usual  instinct  of  mothers,  thought  too  much. 
"You  will  wear  yourself  to  death,  Elinor." 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said,  "it  is  not  that  sort  of  thing  that 
wears  one  to  death.  I  shall — enjoy  it,  I  suppose,  as 
other  people  do " 

"  I  don't  know  about  enjoyment,  Elinor,  but  I  am 
sure  it  would  be  much  better  for  you  to  come  and  stay 
here  quietly  with  me." 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  to  me  of  any  paradises,  mamma. 
We  are  in  the  working-day  world,  and  we  must  make 
out  our  life  as  we  can." 

"  But  you  might  let  Philip  go  by  himself  and  come 
and  stay  quietly  here  for  a  little,  for  the  sake  of  your 
health,  Elinor."' 

"  Not  for  the  world,  not  for  the  world,"  she  cried. 
"  I  cannot  leave  Phil :  "  and  then  with  a  laugh  that  was 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  229 

full  of  a  nervous  thrill,  "  You  are  always  thinking  of 
my  health,  mamma,  when  my  health  is  perfect :  better, 
far  better,  than  almost  anybody's.  The  most  of  them 
have  headaches  and  that  sort  of  thing,  and  they  stay  in 
bed  for  a  day  or  two  constantly,  but  I  never  need  any- 
thing of  the  kind." 

"  My  darling,  it  would  not  be  leaving  Philip  to  take, 
say,  a  single  week's  rest." 

"While  he  went  off  without  me  I  should  not  know 
where,"  she  said,  sullenly  ;  then  gave  her  mother  a 
guilty  look  and  laughed  again.  "  No,  no,  mamma  ;  he 
would  not  like  it.  A  man  does  not  like  his  wife  to  be 
an  incapable,  to  have  to  leave  him  and  be  nursed  up  by 
her  mother.  Besides,  it  is  to  the  country  we  are  going, 
you  know,  to  Scotland,  the  finest  air  ;  better  even,  if 
that  were  possible,  than  Windyhill." 

This  was  all  that  was  said,  and  there  was  indeed  time 
for  little  more  ;  for  as  the  visit  was  unexpected  the 
Hudsons,  by  bad  luck,  appeared  to  take  tea  with  Mrs. 
Dennistoun  by  way  of  cheering  her  in  her  loneliness, 
and  were  of  course  enchanted  to  see  Elinor,  and  to 
hear,  as  Mrs.  Hudson  said,  of  all  her  doings  in  the 
great  world.  "  We  always  look  out  for  your  name  at 
all  the  parties.  It  gives  one  quite  an  interest  in  fash- 
ionable life,"  said  the  Rector's  wife,  nodding  her  head, 
"  and  Alice  was  eager  to  hear  what  the  last  mouth's 
novelties  were  in  the  fashions,  and  if  Elinor  had  any 
nice  new  patterns,  especially  for  under-things.  But 
what  should  you  want  with  new  under-things,  with  such 
a  trousseau  as  you  had  ? "  she  added,  regretfully. 
Elinor  in  fact  was  quite  taken  from  her  mother  for  that 
hour.  Was  it  not,  perhaps,  better  so  ?  Her  mother 
herself  was  half  inclined  to  think  that  it  was,  though 
with  an  ache  in  her  heart,  and  there  could  be  no  doubt 
that  Elinor  herself  was  thankful  that  it  so  happened. 
When  there  are  many  questions  on  one  side  that  must 
be  asked,  and  very  little  answer  possible  on  the  other, 
is  it  a  good  thing  when  the  foolish  outside  world  breaks 
in  with  its  banal  interest  and  prevents  this  dangerous 
interchange  ? 


230  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

So  short  time  did  Elinor  stay  that  she  had  kept  the 
fly  waiting  which  brought  her  from  the  station  :  and 
she  took  leave  of  her  mother  with  a  sort  of  determina- 
tion, not  allowing  it  even  to  be  suggested  that  she 
should  accompany  her.  "I  like  to  bid  you  good-by 
here,"  she  said,  "  at  our  own  door,  where  you  have 
always  come  all  my  life  to  see  me  off,  even  when  I  was 
only  going  to  tea  at  the  Kectory.  Good-by,  good-by, 
mother  dear."  She  drove  off  waving  her  hand,  and 
Mrs.  Denuistoun  sat  out  in  the  garden  a  long  time  till 
she  saw  the  fly  go  round  the  turn  of  the  road,  the  white 
line  which  came  suddenly  in  sight  from  among  the  trees 
and  as  suddenly  disappeared  again  round  the  side  of 
the  hill.  Elinor  waved  her  handkerchief  from  the 
window  and  her  mother  answered — and  then  she  was 
gone  like  a  dream,  and  the  loneliness  closed  down  more 
overwhelming  than  ever  before. 

Elinor  was  at  Goodwood,  her  name  in  all  the  society 
papers,  and  even  a  description  of  one  of  her  dresses, 
which  delighted  and  made  proud  the  whole  population 
of  Windyhill.  The  paper  which  contained  it,  and  which, 
I  believe,  belonged  originally  to  Miss  Dale,  passed  from 
hand  to  hand  through  almost  the  en  tire  community  ;  the 
servants  getting  it  at  last,  and  handing  it  round  among 
the  humbler  friends,  who  read  it,  half  a  dozen  women 
together  round  a  cottage  door,  wiping  their  hands  upon 
their  aprons  before  they  would  touch  the  paper,  with 
many  an  exclamation  and  admiring  outcry.  And  then 
her  name  appeared  among  the  lists  of  smart  people  who 
were  going  to  the  North — now  here,  now  there — in 
company  with  many  other  fine  names.  It  gave  the 
Windyhill  people  a  great  deal  of  amusement,  and  if 
Mrs.  Dennistoun  did  not  quite  share  this  feeling  it  was 
a  thing  for  which  her  friends  blamed  her  gently.  "  For 
only  think  what  a  tine  thing  for  Elinor  to  go  every- 
where among  the  best  people,  and  see  life  like  that ! " 
'•]\ly  dear  friend,"  said  the  Hector,  "you  know  we 
cannot  hope  to  keep  our  children  always  with  us. 
They  must  go  out  into  the  world  while  we  old  birds 
stay  at  home  ;  and  we  must  not — we  really  must  not — 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  231 

grudge  them  their  good  times,  as  the  Americaus  pay." 
It  was  more  wonderful  than  words  could  tell  to  Mrs. 
Dennistoun  that  it  should  be  imagined  she  was  grudg- 
ing Elinor  her  "  good  time  ! " 

The  autumn  went  on,  with  those  occasional  public 
means  of  following  her  footsteps  which,  indeed,  made 
even  John  Tatham — who  was  not  in  an  ordinary  way 
addicted  to  the  Morning  Post,  being  after  his  fashion  a 
Liberal  in  politics  and  far  from  aristocratical  in  his 
sentiments  generally — study  that  paper,  and  also  other 
papers  less  worthy  :  and  with,  of  course,  many  letters 
from  Elinor,  which  gave  more  trustworthy  accounts  of 
her  proceedings.  These  letters,  however,  were  far  less 
long,  far  less  detailed,  than  they  had  once  been  ;  often 
written  in  a  hurry,  and  short,  containing  notes  of  where 
she  was  going,  and  of  a  continual  change  of  address, 
rather  than  of  anything  that  could  be  called  information 
about  herself.  John,  I  think,  went  only  once  to  the 
Cottage  during  the  interval  which  followed.  He  went 
abroad  as  usual  in  the  Long  Vacation,  and  then  he  had 
this  on  his  mind — that  he  had  half-surreptitiously  ob- 
tained a  new  light  upon  the  position  of  Elinor,  which 
he  had  every  desire  to  keep  from  her  mother  ;  for  Mrs. 
Dennistoun,  though  she  felt  that  her  child  was  not 
happy,  attributed  that  to  any  reason  rather  than  a 
failure  in  her  husband's  love.  Elinor's  hot  rejection  of 
the  very  idea  of  leaving  Phil,  her  dislike  of  any  sug- 
gestion to  that  effect,  even  for  a  week,  even  for  a  day, 
seemed  to  her  mother  a  proof  that  her  husband,  at  all 
events,  remained  as  dear  to  her  as  ever  ;  and  John 
would  rather  have  cut  his  tongue  out  than  betray  any 
chance  rumour  he  heard — and  he  heard  many — to  this 
effect.  He  was  of  opinion,  indeed,  that  in  London,  and 
especially  at  a  London  club,  not  only  is  everything 
known  that  is  to  be  known,  but  much  is  known  that  has 
never  existed,  and  never  will  exist  if  not  blown  into 
being  by  those  whose  office  it  is  to  invent  the  grief  to 
come  ;  therefore  he  thought  it  wisest  to  keep  away,  lest 
by  any  chance  something  might  drop  from  him  which 
would  awaken  a  new  crowd  of  disquietudes  in  Mrs. 


232  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

Dennistoun's  heart.  Another  incident,  even  more  dis- 
quieting than  gossip,  had  indeed  occurred  to  John.  It 
had  happened  to  him  to  meet  Lady  Mariamne  at  a  great 
omnium  gatherum  of  a  country  house,  where  all  sorts  of 
people  were  invited,  and  where  that  lady  claimed  his 
acquaintance  as  one  of  the  least  alarming  of  the  grave 
"  set."  She  not  only  claimed  his  acquaintance,  but  set 
up  a  sort  of  friendship  on  the  ground  of  his  relation- 
ship to  Elinor,  and  in  an  unoccupied  moment  after  din- 
ner one  day  poured  a  great  many  confidences  into  his 
ear. 

"  Isn't  it  such  a  pity,"  she  said,  "  that  Phil  and  she  do 
not  get  on  ?  Oh,  they  did  at  first,  like  a  house  on  fire  ! 
And  if  she  had  only  miuded  her  ways  they  might  still 

have  been  as  thick But  these  little  country  girls, 

however  they  may  disguise  it  at  first,  they  all  turn  like 
that.  The  horridest  little  puritan!  Phil  does  no  more 
than  a  hundred  men — than  almost  all  men  do  :  amuse 
hiiuself  with  anything  that  throws  itself  in  his  way,  don't 
you  know.  And  sometimes,  perhaps,  he  does  go  rather 
far.  I  think  myself  he  sometimes  goes  a  little  too  far — 
for  good  taste  you  know,  and  that  sort  of  thing." 

It  was  more  amazing  to  hear  Lady  Mariamne  talk  of 
good  taste  than  anything  that  had  ever  come  in  John 
Tatham's  way  before,  but  he  was  too  horribly,  despe- 
rately  interested  to  see  the  fun. 

"  She  will  go  following  him  about  wherever  he  goes. 
She  oughtn't  to  do  that,  don't  you  know.  She  should 
let  him  take  his  swing,  and  the  chances  are  it  will  bring 
him  back  all  right.  I've  told  her  so  a  dozen  times,  but 
she  pays  no  attention  to  me.  You're  a  great  pal  of  hers. 
Why  don't  you  give  her  a  hint?  Phil's  not  the  sort  of 
man  to  be  kept  in  order  like  that.  She  ought  to  give 
him  his  head." 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  John,  "  it's  not  a  matter  in  which 
I  can  interfere." 

"  Well,  some  of  her  friends  should,  anyhow,  and  teach 
her  a  little  sense.  You're  a  cautious  man,  I  see,"  said 
Lady  Mariamne.  "You  think  it's  too  delicate  to  advise 
a  woman  who  thinks  herself  an  injured  wife.  I  didn't 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  233 

say  to  console  her,  mind  you,"  she  said  with  a  shriek  of 
a  laugh. 

It  may  be  supposed  that  after  this  John  was  still  more 
unwilling  to  go  to  the  Cottage,  to  run1  the  risk  of  be- 
traying himself.  He  did  write  to  Elinor,  telling  her 
that  he  had  heard  of  her  from  her  sister-in-law  ;  but 
when  he  tried  to  take  Lady  Mariamue's  advice  and 
"  give  her  a  hint,"  John  felt  his  lips  sealed.  How  could 
he  breathe  a  word  even  of  such  a  suspicion  to  Elinor  ? 
How  could  he  let  her  know  that  he  thought  suoh  a  thing 
possible? — or  presume  to  advise  her,  to  take  her  con- 
dition for  granted  ?  It  was  impossible.  He  ended  by 
some  aimless  wish  that  he  might  meet  her  at  the 
Cottage  for  Christmas ;  "  you  and  Mr.  Compton,"  he 
said — whom  he  did  not  wish  to  meet,  the  last  person  in 
the  world  :  and  of  whom  there  was  no  question  that  he 
should  go  to  the  Cottage  at  Christmas  or  any  other  time. 
But  what  could  John  do  or  say  ?  To  suggest  to  her  that 
he  thought  her  an  injured  wife  was  beyond  his  power. 

It  was  somewhere  about  Christmas — just  before — in 
that  dread  moment  for  the  lonely  and  those  who  are  in 
sorrow  and  distress,  when  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
is  preparing  for  that  family  festival,  or  pretending  to 
prepare,  that  John  Tatham  was  told  one  morning  in  his 
chambers  that  a  lady  wanted  to  see  him.  He  was  oc- 
cupied, as  it  happened,  with  a  client  for  whom  he  had 
stayed  in  town  longer  than  he  had  intended  to  stay, 
and  he  paid  little  more  attention  than  to  direct  his  clerk 
to  ask  the  lady  what  her  business  was,  or  if  she  could 
wait.  The  client  was  long-winded,  and  lingered,  but 
John's  mind  was  not  free  enough  nor  his  imagination 
lively  enough  to  rouse  much  curiosity  in  him  in  re- 
spect to  the  lady  who  was  waiting.  It  was  only  when 
she  was  ushered  in  by  his  clerk,  as  the  other  went 
away,  and  putting  up  her  veil  showed  the  pale  and 
anxious  countenance  of  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  that  the  shock 
as  of  sudden  calamity  reached  him.  "  Aunt ! "  he  cried, 
springing  from  his  chair. 

"  Yes,  John — I  couldn't  come  anywhere  but  here—' 
you  will  feel  for  me  more  than  any  one." 


234  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

"Elinor?"  be  said. 

Her  lips  were  dry,  she  spoke  with  a  little  difficulty, 
but  she  nodded  her  head"  and  held  out  to  him  a  tele- 
gram which  was  in  her  hand.  It  was  dated  from  a 
remote  part  of  Scotland,  far  in  the  north.  "  111 — come 
instantly,"  was  all  it  said. 

"And  I  cannot  get  away  till  night,"  cried  Mrs. 
Dennistoun,  with  a  burst  of  subdued  sobbing.  "I 
can't  start  till  night." 

"Is  this  all  ?     What  was  your  last  news  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  but  that  they  had  gone  there — to  some- 
body's shooting-box,  which  was  lent  them,  I  believe — 
at  the  end  of  the  world.  I  wrote  to  beg  her  to  come  to 
me.  She  is — near  a  moment — of  great  anxiet}r.  Oh, 
John,  support  me  :  let  me  not  break  down." 

"You  will  not,"  he  said;  "you  are  wanted;  you 
must  keep  ah1  your  wits  about  you.  What  were  they 
doing  there  at  this  time  of  the  year?" 

They  have  been  visiting  about — they  were  invited  to 
Dunorban  for  Christmas,  but  she  persuaded  Philip,  so 
she  said,  to  take  this  little  house.  I  think  he  was  to 
join  the  party  while  she — I  cannot  tell  you  what  was 
the  arrangement.  She  has  written  very  vaguely  for 
some  time.  She  ought  to  have  been  with  me — I  told 
her  so— but  she  has  always  said  she  could  not  leave 
Philip." 

Could  not  leave  Philip  !  The  mother,  fortunately, 
had  no  idea  why  this  determination  was.  "  I  went  so  far 
as  to  write  to  Philip,"  she  said,  "  to  ask  him  if  she 
might  not  come  to  me,  or,  at  least  begging  him  to  bring 
her  to  town,  or  somewhere  where  she  could  have  prop- 
er attention.  He  answered  me  very  briefly  that  he 
wished  her  to  go,  but  she  would  not :  as  he  had  told  me 
before  I  left  town — that  was  all.  It  seemed  to  fret  him 
— he  must  have  known  that  it  was  not  a  fit  place  for 
her,  in  a  stranger's  house,  and  so  far  away.  And  to 
think  I  cannot  even  get  away  till  late  to-night !  " 

John  had  to  comfort  her  as  well  as  he  could,  to  make 
her  pat  something,  to  see  that  she  had  all  the  comforts 
possible  for  her  night  journey.  "You  were  always  like 


THE  CARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  235 

her  brother,"  the  poor  lady  said,  finding  at  last  relief  in 
tears.  And  then  he  went  with  her  to  the  train,  and 
found  her  a  comfortable  carnage,  and  placed  her  in  it 
with  all  the  solaces  his  niind  could  think  of.  A  sleeping- 
carriage  on  the  Scotch  lines  is  not  such  a  ghastly  pre- 
tence of  comfort  as  those  on  the  Continent.  The  solaces 
John  brought  her — the  quantities  of  newspapers,  the 
picture  papers  and  others,  rugs  and  shawls  innumer- 
able— all  that  he  possessed  in  the  shape  of  wraps,  be- 
sides those  which  she  had  with  her.  What  more  could 
a  man  do?  If  she  had  been  young  he  would  have 
bought  her  sugar-plums.  All  that  they  meant  were  the 
dumb  anxieties  of  his  own  breast,  and  the  vague  long- 
ing to  do  something,  anything  that  would  be  a  help  to 
her  on  her  desolate  way. 

"  You  will  send  me  a  word,  aunt,  as  soon  as  you  get 
there  ?  " 

"  Oh,  at  once,  John." 

"You  will  tell  me  how  she  is — say  as  much  as  you 
can — no  three  words,  like  that.  I  shall  not  leave  town 
till  I  hear." 

"  Oh,  John,  why  should  this  keep  you  from  your 
family?  I  could  telegraph  there  as  easily  as  here." 

He  made  a  gesture  almost  of  auger.  "  Do  you  think 
I  am  likely  to  put  myself  out  of  the  way — not  to  be 
ready  if  you  should  want  me?  " 

How  should  she  want  him  ? — a  mother  summoned  to 
her  daughter  at  such  a  moment — but  she  did  not  say  so 
to  trouble  him  more  :  for  John  had  got  to  that  madden- 
ing point  of  anxiety  when  nothing  but  doing  something, 
or  at  least  keeping  ready  to  do  something,  flattering 
yourself  that  there  must  be  something  to  do,  affords  any 
balm  to  the  soul. 

He  saw  her  away  by  that  nighfc  train,  crowded  with 
people  going  home — people  noisy  with  gayety,  escaping 
from  their  daily  cares  to  the  family  meeting,  the  father's 
house,  ah1  the  associations  of  pleasure  and  warmth  and 
consolation — cold,  but  happy,  in  their  third-class  com- 
partments— not  wrapped  up  in  every  conceivable  solace 
as  she  was,  yet  no  one,  perhaps,  so  heavy-hearted.  He 


236  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

watched  for  the  last  glimpse  of  her  face  just  as  the  train 
plunged  into  the  darkness,  and  saw  her  smile  and  wave 
her  hand  to  him  ;  then  he,  too,  plunged  into  the  dark- 
ness like  the  train.  He  walked  and  walked  through  the 
solitary  streets  not  knowing  where  he  was  going,  unable 
to  rest.  Had  he  ever  been,  as  people  say,  in  love  with 
Elinor  ?  He  could  not  tell — he  had  never  betrayed  it 
by  word  or  look  if  he  had.  He  had  never  taken  any 
step  to  draw  her  near  him,  to  persuade  her  to  be  his 
and  not  another's  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  had  avoided 
everything  that  could  lead  to  that.  Neither  could  he 
say,  "She  was  as  my  sister,"  which  his  relationship 
might  have  warranted  him  in  doing.  It  was  neither  the 
one  nor  the  other — si*  was  not  his  love  nor  his  sister — 
she  was  simply  Elinor ;  and  perhaps  she  was  dying  ; 
perhaps  the  news  he  would  receive  next  day  would  be 
the  worst  that  the  heart  can  hear.  He  walked  and 
walked  through  those  dreary,  semi-respectable  streets 
of  London,  the  quiet,  the  sordid,  the  dismal,  mile  after 
mile,  and  street  after  street,  till  half  the  night  was 
over  and  he  was  tired  out,  and  might  have  a  hope  of 
rest. 

But  for  three  whole  days — days  which  he  could  not 
reckon,  which  seemed  of  the  length  of  years — during 
which  he  remained  closeted  in  his  chambers,  the  whole 
world  having,  as  it  seemed,  melted  away  around  him, 
leaving  him  alone,  he  did  not  have  a  word.  He  did  not 
go  home,  feeling  that  he  must  be  on  the  spot,  whatever 
happened.  Finally,  when  he  was  almost  mad,  on  the 
morning  of  the  third  day,  he  received  the  following 
telegram :  "  Saved — as  by  a  miracle  ;  doing  well. 
Child— a  boy.*' 

"  Child — a  boy ! "  Good  heavens  !  what  did  he  want 
with  that  ?  it  seemed  an  insult  to  him  to  tell  him.  What 
did  he  care  for  the  child,  if  it  was  a  boy  or  not? — the 
wretched,  undesirable  brat  of  such  parentage,  born  to 
perpetuate  a  name  which  was  dishonoured.  Altogether 
the  telegram,  as  so  many  telegrams,  but  lighted  fresh 
fires  of  anxiety  in  his  mind.  "  Saved — as  by  a  miracle  !  " 
Then  he  had  been  right  in  the  dreadful  fancies  that  had 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  237 

gone  through  his  mind.  He  had  passed  by  Death  in 
the  dark  ;  and  was  it  now  sure  that  the  miracle  would 
last,  that  the  danger  would  have  passed  away? 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

IT  was  not  till  nearly  three  weeks  after  this  that  John 
received  another  brief  dispatch.  "  At  home  :  come  and 
see  us."  He  had  indeed  got  a  short  letter  or  two  in  the 
interval,  saying  almost  nothing  —  a  brief  report  of 
Elinor's  health,  and  of  the  baby,  against  whom  he  had 
taken  an  unreasoning  disgust  and  repugnance.  "  Little 
beast !  "  he  said  to  himself,  passing  over  that  part  of  the 
bulletin  :  for  the  letters  were  scarcely  more  than  bulle- 
tins, without  a  word  about  the  circumstances  which  sur- 
rounded her.  A  shooting  lodge  in  Ross-shire  in  the 
middle  of  the  winter!  What  a  place  for  a  delicate 
woman !  John  was  well  enough  aware  that  many  ele- 
ments of  comfort  were  possible  even  in  such  a  place  ; 
but  he  shut  his  eyes,  as  was  natural,  to  anything  that 
went  against  his  own  point  of  view. 

And  now  this  telegram  from  Windyhill — "At  home  : 
come  and  see  us  " — MS.  Was  it  a  mistake  of  the  tele- 
graph people? — of  course  they  must  make  mistakes. 
They  had  no  doubt  taken  the  >ne  in  Mrs.  Deunistouu's 

angular  writing  for  us — or  was  it  possible John  had 

no  peace  in  his  mind  until  he  had  so  managed  matters 
that  he  could  go  and  see.  There  was  no  very  pressing 
business  in  the  middle  of  January,  when  people  had 
hardly  yet  recovered  the  idleness  of  Christmas.  He 
started  one  windy  afternoon,  when  everything  was  grey, 
and  arrived  at  Hurrymere  station  in  the  dim  twilight, 
sti'l  ruddy  with  tints  of  sunset.  He  was  in  a  very  con- 
tradictory frame  of  mind,  so  that  though  his  heart 
jumped  to  see  Mrs.  Dennistoun  awaiting  him  on  the 
platform,  there  mingled  in  his  satisfaction  in  seeing  her 
and  hearing  what  she  had  to  tell  so  much  sooner,  a  per- 
verse conviction  of  cold  and  discomfort  in  the  long 


238  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

drive  up  in  the  pony  carriage  which  he  felt  sure  was  be- 
fore him.  He  was  mistaken,  however,  on  this  point, 
for  the  first  thing  she  said  was,  "  I  have  secured  the  fly, 
John.  Old  Pearson  will  take  your  luggage.  I  have  so 
much  to  tell  you."  There  was  an  air  of  excitement  in 
her  face,  but  not  that  air  of  subdued  and  silent  depres- 
sion which  comes  with  solitude.  She  was  evidently  full 
of  the  report  she  had  to  make  ;  but  yet  the  first  thing 
she  did  when  she  was  ensconced  in  the  fly  with  John  be- 
side her  was  to  cover  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  sub- 
side into  her  corner  in  a  silent  passion  of  tears. 

"  For  mercy's  sake  tell  me  what  is  the  mutter.  "What 
has  happened  ?  Is  Elinor  ill  ?  " 

He  had  almost  asked  is  Elinor  dead  ? 

She  uncovered  her  face,  which  had  suddenly  lighted 
up  with  a  strange  gleam  of  joy  underneath  the  tears. 
"  John,  Elinor  is  here,"  she  said. 

"Here?" 

"  At  home — safe.  I  have  brought  her  back — and  the 
child." 

"  Confound  the  child  !"  John  said  in  his  excitement. 
"  Brought  her  back  !  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Oh,  John,  it  is  a  long  story.  I  have  a  hundred 
things  to  tell  you,  and  to  ask  your  advice  upon  ;  but  the 
main  thing  is  that  she  is  here.  I  have  brought  her  away 
from  him.  She  will  go  back  no  more." 

"  She  has  left  her  husband  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  momen- 
tary flicker  of  exultation  in  his  dismay.  But  the  dis- 
may, to  do  him  justice,  was  the  strongest.  He  looked 
at  his  companion  almost  sternly.  "  Things,"  he  said, 
"must  have  been  very  serious  to  justify  that," 

"They  were  more  than  serious — they  had  become 
impossible,"  Mrs.  Dennistoun  said. 

And  she  told  him  her  story,  which  was  a  long  one. 
She  had  arrived  to  find  Elinor  alone  in  the  little  solitary 
lodge  in  the  midst  of  the  wilds,  not  without  attention 
indeed  or  comfort,  but  alone,  her  husband  absent.  She 
had  been  very  ill,  and  he  had  been  at  the  neighbouring 
castle,  where  a  great  party  was  assembled,  and  where, 
the  mother  discovered  at  last,  there  was — the  woman 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELIXOR.  23 !J 

who  had  made  Elinor's  life  a  burden  to  her.  "I  doii't 
know  with  what  truth.  I  don't  know  whether  there  is 
what  people  call  any  harm  in  it.  It  is  possible  he  is 
only  amusing  himself.  I  can't  tell.  But  it  has  made 
Elinor  miserable  this  whole  autumn  through,  that  and  a 
multitude  of  other  things.  She  would  not  let  me  send 
for  him  when  I  got  there.  It  had  gone  so  far  as  that. 
She  said  that  the  whole  business  disgusted  him,  that  he 
had  lost  all  interest  in  her,  that  to  hear  it  was  over 
might  be  a  relief  to  him,  but  nothing  more.  Her  heart 
has  turned  altogether  against  him,  John,  in  every  way. 
There  have  been  a  hundred  things.  You  think  I  am 
almost  wickedly  glad  to  have  her  home.  And  so  I  am. 
I  cannot  deny  it.  To  have  her  here  even  in  her  trouble 
makes  all  the  difference  to  me.  But  I  am  not  so  care- 
less as  you  think.  I  can  look  beyond  to  other  things. 
I  shrink  as  much  as  you  do  from  such  a  collapse  of  her 
life.  I  don't  want  her  to  give  up  her  duty,  and  now  that 
there  is  the  additional  bond  of  the  child " 

"Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,"  said  John,  "leave  the  child 
out  of  it !  I  want  to  hear  nothing  of  the  child  !  " 

"  That  is  one  chief  point,  however,  that  we  want  your 
advice  about,  John.  A  man,  I  suppose,  does  not  under- 
stand it  ;  but  her  baby  is  everything  to  Elinor  :  and  I 
suppose — unless  he  can  really  be  proved  as  guilty  us 
she  thinks — he  could  take  the  child  away." 

John  smiled  to  himself  a  little  bitterly  ;  this  was  why 
he  was  sent  for  in  such  a  hurry,  not  for  the  sake  of  his 
society,  or  from  any  affection  for  him,  but  that  he 
might  tell  them  what  steps  to  take  to  secure  them  ir. 
possession  of  the  child.  He  said  nothing  for  some  time, 
nor  did  Mrs.  Dennistouu,  whose  disappointment  in  the 
coldness  of  his  response  was  considerable,  and  who 
waited  in  vain  for  him  to  speak.  At  length  she  said, 
almost  tremblingly,  "  I  am  afraid  you  disapprove  very 
much  of  the  whole  business,  John." 

"  I  hope  it  has  not  been  done  rashly,"  he  said.  "  The 
husband's  mere  absence,  though  heartless  as — as  I 
should  have  expected  of  the  fellow — would  yet  not  be 
reason  enough  to  satisfy  any — court." 


240  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

"Any  court!  You  don't  think  she  means  to  bring 
him  before  any  court  ?  She  Avants  only  to  be  left  alone. 
We  ask  nothing  from  him,  not  a  penny,  not  any  money 
— surely,  surely  no  revenge — only  not  to  be  molested. 
There  shall  not  be  a  word  said  on  our  side,  if  he  will 
but  let  her  alone." 

John  shook  his  head.  "It  all  depends  upon  the  view 
the  man  takes  of  it,"  he  said. 

Now  this  was  very  cold  comfort  to  Mrs.  Dennistoun, 
who  had  by  this  time  become  very  secure  in  her  posi- 
tion, feeling  herself  entirely  justified  in  all  that  she  had 
done.  "The  man,"  she  said,  "  the  man  is  not  the  suf- 
ferer :  and  surely  the  woman  has  some  claim  to  be 
heard." 

"  Every  claim,'"'  said  John.  "  That  is  not  what  I  was 
thinking  of.  It  is  this  :  if  the  man  has  a  leg  to  stand 
upon,  he  will  show  fight.  If  he  hasn't — why  that  will 
make  the  whole  difference,  and  probably  Elinor's  posi- 
tion will  be  quite  safe.  But  you  yourself  say : 

"John,  don't  throw  back  upon  me  what  I  myself  said. 
I  said  that  perhaps  things  were  not  so  bad  as  she  be- 
lieved. In  my  experience  I  have  found  that  folly,  and 
playing  with  everything  that  is  right  is  more  common 
than  absolute  wrong — and  men  like  Philip  Compton  are 
made  up  of  levity  and  disregard  of  everything  that  is 
serious." 

"In  that  case,"  said  John,  "if  you  are  right,  he  will 
not  let  her  go." 

"  Oh,  John  !  oh,  John  !  don't  make  me  wish  that  he 
may  be  a  worse  man  than  I  think.  He  could  not  force 
her  to  go  back  to  him,  feeling  as  she  does." 

"  Nobody  can  force  a  woman  to  do  that  ;  but  he 
could  perhaps  make  her  position  untenable  ;  he  would, 
perhaps,  take  away  the  child." 

"John,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  in  alarm,  "if  you 
tell  her  that,  she  will  fly  off  with  him  to  the  end  of  the 
world.  She  will  die  before  she  will  part  with  the  child." 

"  I  suppose  that's  how  women  are  made,"  said  John, 
not  yet  cured  of  his  personal  offence. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "that's  how  women  are  made." 


THE  MARIUAVK  OF  ELINOR.  241 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  lie  said,  coming  to  himself  ; 
"but  you  know,  aunt,  a  man  may  be  pardoned  for  not 
understanding  that  supreme  fascination  of  the  baby 
who  cares  no  more  for  one  than  another,  poor  little 
animal,  so  long  as  it  gets  its  food  and  is  warm  enough. 
We  must  await  and  see  what  the  man  will  do." 

"Is  that  the  best? — is  there. nothing  we  can  do  to 
defend  ourselves  in  the  meantime — to  make  any  sort  of 
barricade  against  him?" 

"  We  must  wait  and  see  what  he  is  going  to  do,"  said 
John  ;  and  they  went  over  and  over  the  question,  again 
and  again,  as  they  climbed  the  hills.  It  grew  quite 
dark  as  they  drove  along,  and  when  they  came  out  upon 
the  open  part  of  the  road,  from  which  the  Cottage  was 
visible,  they  both  looked  out  across  the  combe  to  the 
lights  in  the  windows  with  an  involuntary  movement. 
The  Cottage  was  transformed  ;  instead  of  the  one 
lonely  lighted  window  which  had  indicated  to  John  in 
former  visits  where  Mrs.  Denuist  Dim  sat  alone,  there  was 
now  a  twinkle  from  various  points,  a  glow  of  firelight,  a 
sensation  of  warmth,  and  company.  Mrs.  Dennistoun 
looked  out  upon  it  and  her  face  shone.  It  was  not  a 
happy  thing  that  Elinor  should  have  made  shipwreck 
of  her  life,  should  have  left  her  husband  and  sought 
refuge  in  her  mother's  house.  But  how  could  it  be 
otherwise  than  happy  that  Elinor  was  there — Elinor 
and  the  other  little  creature  who  was  something  more 
than  Elinor,  herself  and  yet  another  ?  As  for  John,  he 
looked  at  it  too,  with  an  interest  which  stopped  all 
arguments  on  the  cause  of  it.  She  was  there — wrong, 
perhaps,  impatient ;  too  quick  to  fly  as  she  had  been 
too  quick  to  go — but  still  Elinor  all  the  same,  whether 
she  was  right  or  wrong. 

The  cab  arrived  soberly  at  the  door,  where  Pearson 
with  the  pony  carriage,  coming  by  the  shorter  way  with 
the  luggage,  had  just  arrived  also.  Mrs.  Dennistoun 
said,  hurriedly,  "You  will  find  Elinor  in  the  drawing- 
room,  John,"  and  herself  went  hastily  through  the 
house  and  up  the  stairs.  She  was  going  to  the  baby  ! 
John  guessed  this  wuh  a  smile  of  astonishment  and 
16 


THE  MAlirJAGE  OF  ELIXOR. 

half  contempt.  How  strange  it  was  !  There  could  not 
be  a  more  sad  position  than  that  in  which,  in  their 
rashness,  these  two  women  had  placed  themselves  ;  and 
yet  the  mother,  a  woman  of  experience,  who  ought  to 
have  known  better,  got  out  of  the  carriage  like  a  girl, 
without  waiting  to  be  helped  or  attended  to,  and  went 
up-stairs  like  the  wind,  forgetting  everything  else  for 
that  child — that  child,  the  inheritor  of  Phil  Compton's 
name  and  very  likely  of  his  qualities — fated  from  his 
birth  (most  likely)  to  bring  trouble  to  everybody  con- 
nected with  him !  And  yet  Elinor  was  of  less  interest 
to  her  mother.  What  strange  caprices  of  nature  !  what 
extraordinary  freaks  of  womankind  ! 

The  Cottage  down-stairs  was  warm  and  bright  with 
firelight  and  lamplight,  and  in  the  great  chair  by  the 
fire  was  reclining,  lying  back  with  her  book  laid  on  her 
lap  and  her  face  full  of  eager  attention  to  the  sounds 
outside,  a  pale  young  woman,  surrounded  by  cushions 
and  warm  wraps  and  everything  an  invalid  could  re- 
quire, who  raised  to  him  eyes  more  large  and  shining 
than  he  had  ever  seen  before,  suffused  with  a  dew  of 
pain  and  pleasure  and  eager  welcome.  Elinor,  was  it 
Elinor  ?  He  had  never  seen  her  in  any  way  like  an  in- 
valid before — never  knew  her  to  be  ill,  or  weak,  or  un- 
able to  walk  out  to  the  door  and  meet  him  or  anyone 
she  cared  for.  The  sight  of  her  ailing,  weak,  with  those 
largo  glistening  eyes,  enlarged  by  feebleness,  wont  to 
his  very  heart.  Fortunately  he  did  not  in  any  \\;iv  con- 
nect this  enfeebled  state  with  the  phenomenon  up- 
stairs, which  was  best  for  all  parties.  He  hurried  up  to 
her,  taking  her  thin  hands  into  his  own. 

"  Elinor  !  my  poor  little  Xelly — can  this  be  you  !  " 

The  water  that  was  in  her  eyes  rolled  over  in  two 
great  tears ;  a  brief  convulsion  went  over  her  face. 
.  John,"  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper.  ''Strange 
as  it  may  seem,  this  is  all  that  is  left  of  me." 

He  sat  down  beside  her  and  for  a  moment  neither  of 
them  spoke.  Pity,  tenderness,  wrath,  surged  up  to- 
gether in  John's  breast  ;  pity,  tender  compassion,  most 
strong  of  all.  Poor  little  thing  ;  this  was  how  she  had 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR,  243 

come  back  to  her  home  ;  her  heart  broken,  her  wings 
broken,  as  it  were  ;  all  her  soaring  and  swiftness  and 
energy  gone.  He  could  scarcely  look  upon  her  for  the 
pity  that  overflowed  his  heart.  But  underneath  lay 
wrath,  not  only  against  the  man  who  had  brought  her 
to  such  a  pass,  but  against  herself  too. 

"John,"  she  said,  after  a  while,  "do  you  remember 
saying  to  me  that  I  was  not  one  to  bear,  to  put  up  with 
things,  to  take  the  consequences  if  I  tried  a  dangerous 
experiment  and  failed  '? '' 

"  Did  I  ever  say  anything  so  silly  and  so  cruel?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no  ;  it  was  neither  silly  nor  unkind,  but 
quite,  quite  true.  I  have  thought  of  it  so  often.  I 
used  to  think  of  it  to  stir  up  my  pride,  to  remind  my- 
self that  I  ought  to  try  to  be  better  than  my  nature,  not 
to  allow  you  to  be  a  true  prophet.  But  it  was  so,  and 
I  couldn't  change  it.  You  can  see  you  were  right,  John, 
for  I  have  not  been  like  a  strong  woman,  able  to  en- 
dure ;  I  have  only  been  able  to  run  away." 

"My  poor  little  Nelly!  " 

"  Don't  pity  me,"  she  said,  the  tears  running  over 
again.  "I  am  too  well  off;  I  am  too  well  taken  care  of. 
A  prodigal  should  not  be  made  so  much  of  as  I  am." 

"  Don't  call  yourself  a  prodigal,  Nelly !  Perhaps 
things  may  not  be  as  bad  as  they  appear.  At  least,  it  is 
but  the  first  fall — the  greatest  athlete  gets  many  before 
he  can  stand  against  the  world." 

"  I'll  never  be  an  athlete,  John.  Besides,  I'm  a  wom- 
an, you  know,  and  a  fall  of  any  kind  is  fatal  to  a  wom- 
an, especially  anything  of  this  kind.  No,  I  know  very 
well  it's  all  over  ;  I  shall  never  hold  up  my  head  again. 
But  that's  not  the  question — the  question  is,  to  be  safe 
and  as  free  as  can  be.  Mamma  takes  me  in,  you  know, 
just  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  She  is  quite  willing 
to  take  the  burden  of  me  on  her  shoulders — and  of 
baby.  She  has  told  you  that  there  are  two  of  me,  now, 
John — my  baby,  as  well  as  myself." 

John  could  only  nod  an  assent ;  he  could  not  speak. 

"  It's  a  wonderful  thing  to  come  out  of  a  wreck  with 
a  treasure  in  one's  amis  ;  everything  going  to  pieces  be- 


244  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

hind  one  ;  the  rafters  coming  clown,  the  walls  falling  in 
and  yet  one's  treasure  in  one's  arms.  Oh,  I  had  not  the 
heart  or  the  strength  to  come  out  of  the  tumbling 
house.  My  mother  did  it  all,  dragged  me  out,  wrapped 
me  up  in  love  and  kindness,  carried  me  away.  I  don't 
want  you  to  think  I  was  good  for  anything.  I  should 
just  have  lain  there  and  died.  One  thing,  I  did  not 
mind  dying  at  all — I  had  quite  made  up  my  mind. 
That  would  not  have  been  so  disgraceful  as  running 
away." 

"There  is  nothing  that  is  disgraceful,"  said  John, 
"for  heaven's  sake  don't  say  so,  Nelly.  It  is  unfortu- 
nate—  beyond  words  —  but  that  is  all.  Nobody  can 
think  that  you  are  in  any  way  disgraced.  And  if  you 
are  allowed  just  to  stay  quietly  here  in  your  natural 
home,  I  suppose  you  desire  nothing  moi'e." 

"What  should  I  desire  more,  John  ?  You  don't  sup- 
pose I  should  like  to  go  and  live  in  the  world  again, 
and  go  into  society  and  all  that?  I  have  had  about 
enough  of  society.  Oh,  I  want  nothing  but  to  be  quiet 
and  unmolested,  and  bring  up  my  baby.  They  could 
not  take  my  baby  from  me,  John  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  so,"  he  said,  with  a  grave  face. 

"You  do  not— think  so?  Then  you  are  not  sure? 
My  mother  says  dreadful  things,  but  I  cannot  believe 
them.  They  would  never  take  an  infant  from  its  mother 
to  give  it  to — to  give  it  to — a  man — Avho  could  do 
nothing,  nothing  for  it.  What  could  a  man  do  with  a 
young  child  ?  a  man  always  on  the  move,  who  has  no 
settled  home,  who  has  no  idea  what  an  infant  wants  ? 
John,  I  know  law  is  inhuman,  but  surely,  surely  not  so 
inhuman  as  that." 

"My  dear  Nelly,"  he  said,  "the  law,  you  know,  which, 
as  you  say,  is  often  inhuman,  recognizes  the  child  as 
belonging  to  the  father.  He  is  responsible  for  it.  For 
instance,  they  never  could  come  upon  you  for  its  main- 
tenance or  education,  or  anything  of  that  kind,  until  it 
had  been  proved  that  the  father — 

"May  I  ask,"  said  Elinor,  with  uplifted  head,  "of 
what  or  of  whom  you  are  talking  when  you  say  it  f  " 


THE  MAURI  AGE   OF  ELINOR.  L>45 

It  was  all  John  could  do  not  to  burst  into  a  peal  of 
aggrieved  and  indignant  laughter.  He  who  had  been 
brought  from  town,  from  his  own  comforts  such  as  they 
were,  to  be  consulted  about  this  brat,  this  child  which 
belonged  to  the  dis-Honourable  Phil  ;  and  Elinor,  Eli- 
nor, of  all  people  in  the  world,  threw  up  her  head  and 
confronted  him  with  disdain  because  he  called  the  br;it 
it,  and  not  him  or  her,  whichever  it  was.  John  recol- 
lected svell  enough  that  sentence  at  which  he  had  been 
so  indignant  in  the  telegram — "  child,  a  boy  " — but  he 
affected  to  himself  not  to  know  what  it  was  for  the  in- 
dulgence of  a  little  contumely  :  and  the  reward  he  had 
got  was  contumely  upon  his  own  head.  But  when  he 
looked  at  Elinor's  pale  face,  the  eyes  so  much  larger 
than  they  ought  to  be,  with  tears  welling  out  unawares, 
dried  up  for  a  moment  by  indignation  or  quick  hasty 
temper,  the  temper  which  made  her  sweeter  words  all 
the  more  sweet  he  had  always  thought — then  rising 
again  unawares  under  the  heavy  lids,  the  lips  so  ready 
to  quiver,  the  pathetic  lines  about  the  mouth  :  when  he 
looked  at  all  these  John's  heart  smote  him.  He  would 
have  called  the  child  anything,  if  there  had  been  a  sex 
superior  to  him  the  baby  should  have  it.  And  what 
was  there  that  man  could  do  that  he  would  not  do  for 
the  deliverance  of  the  mother  and  the  child  ? 


CHAPTEK  XXV. 

IT  cannot  be  said  that  this  evening  at  the  Cottage  was 
an  agreeable  one.  To  think  that  Elinor  should  be 
there,  and  yet  that  there  should  be  so  little  pleasure  in 
the  fact  that  the  old  party,  which  had  once  been  so 
happy  together,  should  be  together  again,  was  bewilder- 
ing. And  yet  there  was  one  member  of  it  who  was 
happy  with  a  shamefaced  unacknowledged  joy.  To 
think  that  that  which  made  her  child  miserable  should 
make  her  happy  was  a  dreadful  thought  to  Mrs.  Dennis- 


246  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

toun,  and  yet  bow  could  she  help  it  ?  Elinor  was  there, 
and  the  baby  was  there,  the  new  unthought-of  creature 
which  had  brought  with  it  a  new  anxiety,  a  rush  of  new 
thoughts  and  wishes.  Already  everything  else  in  the 
mind  of  Elinor's  mother  began  to  yield  to  the  desire  to 
retain  these  two — the  new  mother  and  the  child.  But 
she  did  not  avow  this  desire.  She  was  mostly  silent, 
taking  little  part  in  the  discussion,  which  was  indeed 
a  very  curious  discussion,  since  Elinor,  debating  the 
question  how  she  was  to  abandon  her  husband  and  de- 
fend herself  against  him,  never  mentioned  his  name. 

She  did  not  come  in  to  dinner,  which  Mrs.  Dennis- 
toun  and  John  Tatham  ate  solemnly  alone,  saying  but 
little,  trying  to  talk  upon  indifferent  topics,  with  that 
very  wretched  result  which  is  usual  when  people  at  one 
of  the  great  crises  of  life  have  to  make  conversation  for 
each  other  while  servants  are  about  and  the  restraints 
of  common  life  are  around  them.  Whether  it  is  the 
terrible  flood  of  grief  which  has  to  be  barred  and  kept 
within  bounds  so  that  the  functions  of  life  may  not 
altogether  be  swept  away,  or  the  sharper  but  warmer 
pang  of  anxiety,  that  which  cuts  like  a  serpent's  tooth, 
yet  is  not  altogether  beyond  the  reach  of  hope,  what 
poor  pretences  these  are  at  interest  in  ordinary  sub- 
jects ;  what  miserable  gropings  after  something  that 
can  furnish  a  thread  of  conversation  just  enough  to  keep 
the  intercourse  of  life  going  !  These  two  were  not 
more  successful  than  others  in  this  dismal  pursuit. 
Mrs.  Deniustoun  found  a  moment  when  the  meal  was 
over  before  she  left  John,  poor  pretence  !  to  his  wine. 
"  Remember  that  she  will  not  mention  his  name  ; 
nothing  must  be  said  about  him,"  she  said.  "  How  can 
we  discuss  him  and  what  he  is  likely  to  do  without 
speaking  of  him?  "said  John,  with  a  little  scorn.  "I 
don't  know,"  replied  the  poor  lady.  "  But  you  will  find 
that  she  will  not  have  his  name  mentioned.  You  must 
try  and  humour  her.  Poor  Elinor  !  For  I  know  that 
you  are  sorry  for  her,  John." 

Sorry  for  her  !  He  sat  over  his  glass  of  mild  claret 
in  the  little  dining-room  that  had  once  been  so  bright; 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  247 

even  now  it  was  the  cosiest  little  room,  the  curtains  all 
drawn,  shutting  out  the  cold  wind,  which  in  January 
searches  out  every  crevice,  the  firelight  blazing  fitfully, 
bringing  out  all  the  pretty  warm  decollations,  the  gleam 
of  silver  on  the  side-board,  the  pictures  on  the  wall,  the 
mirror  over  the  mantelpiece.  There  was  nothing  wanted 
under  that  roof  to  make  it  the  very  home  of  domestic 
warmth  and  comfort.  And  yet — sorry  for  Elinor! 
That  was  not  the  word.  His  heart  was  sore  for  her, 
torn  away  from  all  her  mooiings,  drifting  back  a  wreck 
to  the  little  youthful  home,  where  all  had  been  so  ti'an- 
quil  and  so  sweet.  John  had  nothing  in  him  of  that 
petty  sentiment  which  derives  satisfaction  from  a  ca- 
lamity it  has  foreseen,  nor  had  he  even  an  old  lover's 
thrill  of  almost  pleasure  in  the  downfall  of  the  clay  idol 
that  has  been  preferred  to  his  gold.  His  pain  for 
Elinor,  the  constriction  in  his  heart  at  thought  of  her 
position,  were  unmixed  with  any  baser  feeling.  Sorry 
for  her !  He  would  have  given  all  he  possessed  to 
restore  her  happiness — not  in  his  way,  but  in  the  way 
she  had  chosen,  even,  last  abnegation  of  all,  to  make 
the  man  worthy  of  her  who  had  never  been  worthy. 
Even  his  own  indignation  and  wrath  against  that  man 
were  subservient  in  John's  honest  breast  to  the  desire 
of  somehow  finding  that  it  might  be  possible  to  white- 
wash him,  nay  to  reform  him,  to  make  him  as  near  as 
possible  something  which  she  could  tolerate  for  life. 
I  doubt  if  a  woman,  notwithstanding  the  much  more 
ready  power  of  sacrifice  which  women  possess,  could 
have  so  fully  desired  this  renewal  and  amendment  as 
John  did.  It  was  scarcely  too  much  to  say  that  he 
hated  Phil  Compton  :  yet  he  would  have  given  the  half 
of  his  substance  at  this  moment  to  make  Phil  Compton 
a  good  man  ;  nay,  even  to  make  him  a  passable  man — 
to  rehabilitate  him  in  his  wife's  eyes. 

John  stayed  a  long  time  over  "  his  wine,"  the  mild 
glass  of  claret  (or  perhaps  it  was  Burgundy)  which  was 
aU  that  was  offered  him — partly  to  think  the  matter 
over,  but  also  partly  perhaps  because  he  heard  certain 
faint  gurglings,  and  the  passage  of  certain  steps,  active 


1M-S  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

and  full  of  energy,  past  the  door  of  the  room  within 
which  he  sat,  going  now  to  the  drawing-room,  now  up- 
stairs, from  which  he  divined  that  the  new  inmate  of 
the  house  was  at  present  in  possession  of  the  drawing- 
room,  and  of  ah1  attention  there.  He  smiled  at  himself 
for  his  hostility  to  the  child,  which,  of  course,  was 
entirely  innocent  of  all  blame.  Here  the  man  was  in- 
ferior to  the  woman  in  comprehension  and  sympathy  ; 
for  lie  not  only  could  not  understand  how  they  could 
possibly  obtain  solace  in  their  trouble  from  this  un- 
conscious littte  creature,  but  he  was  angry  and  scorn- 
ful of  them  for  doing  so.  Phil  Compton's  brat,  no 
doubt  the  germ  of  a  thousand  troubles  to  come,  but 
besides  that  a  nothing,  a  being  without  love  or  thought, 
or  even  consciousness,  a  mere  little  animal  feeding  and 
sleeping— and  yet  the  idol  and  object  of  all  the  thoughts 
of  two  intelligent  women,  capable  of  so  much  better 
things  !  This  irritated  John  and  disgusted  him  in  the 
midst  of  all  his  anxious  thoughts,  and  his  profound 
compassion  and  deliberations  how  best  to  help  :  and  it 
was  not  till  the  passage  of  ceiiain  feeble  sounds  out- 
side his  door,  which  proceeded  audibly  up-stairs,  little 
bleatings  in  which,  if  they  had  come  from  a  lamb,  or 
even  a  puppy,  John  would  have  been  interested,  as- 
sured him  that  the  small  enemy  had  disappeared — that 
he  finally  rose  and  proceeded  to  "join  the  ladies,"  as 
if  he  had  been  holding  a  little  private  debauch  all  by 
himself. 

There  was  a  little  fragrance  and  air  of  the  visitor  still 
in  the  room,  a  little  disturbance  of  the  usual  arrange- 
ments, a  surreptitious,  quite  unjustifiable  look  as  of 
pleasure  in  Elinor's  eyes,  which  were  less  expanded, 
and  if  as  liquid  as  ever,  more  softly  bright  than  be- 
fore. Something  white  actually  lay  on  the  sofa,  a 
small  garment  which  Mrs.  Dennistoun  whisked  away. 
They  were  conscious  of  John's  critical  eye  upon  them, 
and  received  him  with  a  warmth  of  conciliatory  wel- 
come Which  betrayed  that  consciousness.  Mrs.  Dennis- 
toun drew  a  chair  for  him  to  the  other  side  of  the  fire. 
She  took  her  own  place  in  the  middle  at  the  table 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELIXOR.  240 

with  a  large  piece  of  white  knitting,  to  which  she  gave 
her  whole  attention,  and  thus  the  deliberation  began. 

"  Elinor  wants  to  know,  John,  what  you  think  we 
ought  to  do — to  make  quite  sura— ^-that  there  will  be  no 
risk,  about  the  baby." 

"  I  must  know  more  of  the  details  of  the  question 
before  I  can  give  any  advice,"  said  John. 

"John,"  said  Elinor,  raising  herself  in  her  chair, 
"  here  are  all  the  details  that  are  necessary.  I  have 
come  away.  I  have  come  home,  finding  that  life  was 
impossible  there.  That  is  the  whole  matter.  It  may 
be,  probably  it  is,  my  own  fault.  It  is  simply  that  life 
became  impossible.  You  know  you  said  that  I  was  not 
one  to  endure,  to  put  up  with  things.  I  scoffed  at  }rou 
then,  for  I  did  not  expect  to  have  anything  to  put  up 
with  ;  but  you  were  quite  right,  and  life  had  become 
impossible — that  is  all  there  is  any  need  to  say." 

"  To  me,  yes,"  said  John,  "  but  not  enough,  Elinor, 
if  it  ever  has  to  come  within  the  reach  of  the  law." 

"  But  why  should  it  come  within  the  reach  of  the 
law  ?  You,  John,  you  are  a  lawyer  ;  you  know  the 
rights  of  everything.  I  thought  you  might  have 
arranged  it  all.  Couldn't  you  try  to  make  a  kind  of  a 
bargain  ?  What  bargain  ?  Oh,  am  I  a  lawyer,  do  I 
know  ?  But  you,  John,  who  have  it  all  at  your  fingers' 
ends,  who  know  what  can  be  done  and  what  can't  be 
done,  and  the  rights  that  one  has  and  that  another  has  ! 
Dear  John  !  if  you  were  to  try,  don't  you  think  that  you 
could  settle  it  all,  simply  as  between  people  who  don't 
want  any  exposure,  any  struggle,  but  only  to  be  quiet 
and  to  be  let  alone  ?  " 

"  Elinor,  I  don't  know  what  I  could  do  with  so  little 
information  as  I  have.  To  know  that  you  found  your 
life  impossible  is  enough  for  me.  But  you  know  most 
people  are  right  in  their  own  eyes.  If  we  have  some 
one  opposed  to  us  who  thinks,  for  instance,  that  the 
fault  was  yours  ?  " 

"Well,"  she  cried,  eagerly,  "I  am  willing  to  accept 
that :  say  that  the  fault  was  mine  !  You  could  confirm 
it,  that  it  was  likely  to  be  mine.  You  could  tell  them 


250  THE  ir.\niti\<;E  or  Kr. 

what  an  impatient  person  I  was,  and  that  you  said  I 
was  not  one  to  try  an  experiment,  for  I  never,  never 
could  put  up  with  anything.  John,  you  could  be  a 
witness  as  well  as  an  advocate.  You  could  prove  that 
you  always  expected — and  that  I  am  quite,  quite  will- 
ing to  allow  that  it  was  I " 

"  Elinor,  if  I  could  only  make  you  understand  what  I 
mean  !  I  am  told  that  I  am  not  to  mention  any  names? '' 

"  No,  no  names,  no  names  !  What  is  the  good  ?  We 
both  know  very  well  what  we  mean." 

"  But  I  don't  know  very  well  what  you  mean.  Don't 
you  see  that  if  it  is  your  fault — if  the  other  party  is 
innocent — there  can  be  no  reason  in  the  world  why  he 
should  consent  to  renounce  his  rights.  It  is  not  a 
mere  matter  of  feeling.  There  is  right  in  it  one  way 
or  another — either  on  your  side  or  else  on  the  other  side  ; 
and  if  it  is  on  the  other  side,  why  should  a  man  give  up 
what  belongs  to  him,  why  should  he  renounce  what  is — 
most  dear  to  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  John,  John,  John  !  "  she  made  this  appeal  and 
outcry,  clasping  her  hands  together  with  a  mixture  of 
supplication  and  impatience.  Then  turning  to  her 
mother — "Oh,  tell  him,"  she  cried,  "tell  him!" — al- 
ways clasping  those  impatient  yet  beseeching  hands. 

"You  see,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  "Elinor  knows 
that  the  right  is  on  her  side  :  but  she  will  consent  to  say 
nothing  about  it  to  any  one — to  give  herself  out  as  the 
offender  rather — that  is  to  say,  as  an  ill-disciplined  per- 
son that  cannot  put  up  with  anything,  as  you  seem  to 
have  said." 

John  laughed  with  vexation,  yet  a  kind  of  amusement. 
"I  novel1  said  it  nor  thought  it  :  still  if  it  pleases  her 
to  think  so —  The  wiser  thing  if  this  separation  is 
final ' 

"If  it  is  final !  "  Elinor  cried.  She  raised  herself  up 
again  in  her  chair,  and  contemplated  the  unfortunate 
•  lolni  with  a  sort  of  tragic  superiority.  "Do  you  think 
that  of  me,"  she  said,  "  that  I  would  take  such  a  step  ;is 
this  and  th;if  it  should  not  be  final?  Is  dying  final? 
Could  one  do  such  a  thing  as  this  and  change  ?" 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  251 

"Such  things  have  been  done,"  said  John.  "Eli- 
nor, forgive  me.  I  must  say  it — it  is  all  your  life  that 
is  in  the  balance,  and  another  life.  There  is  this  infant 
to  be  struggled  over,  perhaps  rent  in  two  by  those  who 
should  have  united  to  take  care  of  him — and  it's  a  boy, 
I  hear.  There's  his  name  and  his  after-life  to.  think  of 
— a  child  without  a  father,  perhaps  the  heir  of  a  family 
to  which  he  will  not  belong.  Elinor — tell  her,  aunt, 
you  understand  :  is  it  my  wish  to  hand  her  back  to — 

to No,  I'll  speak  no  names.  But  you  know  I 

disliked  it  always,  opposed  it  always.  It  is  not  out  of 
any  favour  to — to  the  other  side.  But  she  ought  to 
take  all  these  things  into  account.  Her  own  position, 
and  the  position  in  the  future  of  the  child " 

Elinor  had  crushed  her  fan  with  her  hands,  and  Mrs. 
Deuuistoun  let  the  knitting  with  which  she  had  gone  on 
in  spite  of  all  fall  at  last  in  her  lap.  There  was  a  little 
pause.  John  Tathani's  voice  itself  had  begun  to  falter, 
or  rather  swelled  in  sound  as  when  a  stream  swells  in 
flood. 

';  I  do  not  go  into  the  question  about  women  and 
what  they  ought  to  put  up  with,"  said  John,  resuming. 
"There's  many  things  that  law  can  do  nothing  for — and 
nature  in  many  ways  makes  it  harder  for  women,  I  ac- 
knowledge. We  cannot  change  that.  Think  what  her 
position  will  be — neither  a  wife  nor  with  the  freedom 
of  a  widow  ;  and  the  boy,  bearing  the  name  of  one  he 
must  almost  be  taught  to  think  badly  of — for  one  of 
them  must  be  in  the  wrong " 

"He  shall  never,  never  hear  that  name  ;  he  shall 
know  nothing,  he  shall  be  free  of  every  bond  ;  his  mind 
shall  never  be  cramped  or  twisted  or  troubled  by  any — 
man — if  I  live." 

This  Elinor  said,  lifting  her  pale  face  from  her  hands 
with  eyes  that  flashed  and  shone  with  a  blaze  of  excite- 
ment and  weakness. 

"There  already,"  said  John,  "is  a  tremendous  condi- 
tion— if  you  live  !  Who  can  make  sure  that  they  will 
live  ?  We  must  all  die — some  sooner,  some  later — and 
you  wearing  yourself  out  with  excitement,  that  never 


352  TEE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELIXOll. 

were  strong  ;  you  exposing  your  heart,  the  weakest 
organ " 

"John,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  grasping  him  by  the 
arm,  "  you  are  talking  nonsense,  you  don' t  know  what 
you  are  saving.  My  darling  !  she  was  never  weak  nor 
had  a  feeble  heart,  nor — anything !  She  will  live  to  bring 
up  his  children,  her  baby's  children,  upon  her  knees." 

"  And  what  would  it  matter  ?"  said  Elinor — looking 
at  him  with  clear  eyes,  from  which  the  tears  had  disap- 
peared in  the  shock  of  this  unlooked-for  suggestion — 
"  suppose  I  have  no  more  strength  than  that,  suppose  I 
were  to  die?  you  shall  be  his  guardian,  John,  bring  him 
up  a  good  man  ;  and  his  Heavenly  Father  will  take 
care  of  him.  I  am  not  afraid." 

A  man  had  better  not  deal  wth  such  subjects  between 
two  women.  What  with  Mrs.  Denuistoun's  indignant 
protest  and  Elinor's  lofty  submission,  John  was  at  his 
wits'  end.  "I  did  not  mean  to  carry  things  to  such  a 
bitter  end  as  that,"  he  said.  "  You  want  to  force  me 
into  a  corner  and  make  rne  say  things  I  never  meant. 
The  question  is  serious  enough  without  that." 

There  was  again  a  little  pause,  and  then  Elinor,  with 
one  of  those  changes  which  are  so  perplexing  to  sober- 
minded  people,  suddenly  turned  to  him,  holding  out 
both  her  hands. 

"John — we'll  leave  that  in  God's  hands  whatever  is 
to  happen  to  me.  But  in  the  meantime,  while  I  am  liv- 
ing— and  perhaps  my  life  depends  upon  being  quiet  and 
having  a  little  peace  and  rest.  It  is  not  that  I  care 
very  much  for  my  life,"  said  Elinor,  with  that  clear, 
open-eyed  look,  like  the  sky  after  rain — "  I  am  ship- 
wrecked, John,  as  you  say — but  my  mother  does,  and 
it's  of — some — consequence — to  baby  ;  and  if  it  depends 
upon  whether  I  am  left  alone,  you  are  too  good  a  friend 
to  leave  me  in  the  lurch.  And  you  said — one  night — 
whatever  happened  I  was  to  send  for  you." 

John  sprang  up  from  his  seat,  dropping  the  hands 
Avhich  be  had  taken  into  his  own.  She  was  like  Queen 
Katherine,  "  about  to  weep,"  and  her  breast  strained 
With  the  sobbing  effort  to  keep  it  down. 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELIXOR. 

"  For  God's  sake,"  he  cried,  "  don't  play  upon  our 
hearts  like  this !  I  will  do  anything — everything — 
whatever  you  choose  to  tell  me.  Aunt,  don't  let  her 
cry,  don't  let  her  go  on  like  that.  Why,  good 
heavens  !  "  he  cried,  bursting  himself  into  a  kind  of  big 
sob,  "  won't  it  be  bad  for  that  little  brat  of  a  baby  or 
something  if  she  keeps  going  on  in  this  way?  " 

Thus  John  Tatham  surrendered  at  discretion.  What 
could  he  do  more  ?  A  man  cannot  be  played  upon  like 
an  instrument  without  giving  out  sounds  of  which  he 
will,  perhaps,  be  ashamed.  And  this  woman  appealing 
to  him — this  girl — looking  like  the  little  Elinor  he  re- 
membered, younger  and  softer  in  her  weakness  and 
trouble  than  she  had  been  in  her  beauty  and  pride — 
was  the  creature  after  all,  though  she  would  never  know 
it,  whom  he  loved  best  in  the  world.  He  had  wanted 
to  save  her.  in  the  one  worldly  way  of  saving  her,  from 
open  shipwreck,  for  her  own  sake,  against  every  preju- 
dice and  prepossession  of  his  mind.  But  if  she  would 
not  have  that,  why  it  was  his  business  to  save  her  as 
she  wished,  to  do  for  her  whatever  she  wanted  ;  to  act 
as  her  agent,  her  champion,  whatever  she  pleased. 

He  was  sent  away  presently,  and  accepted  his  dis- 
missal with  thankfulness,  to  smoke  his  cigar.  This  is 
one  amusing  thing  in  a  feminine  household.  A  man  is 
supposed  to  want  all  manner  of  little  indulgences  and 
not  to  be  able  to  do  without  them.  He  is  carefully  left 
alone  over  "  his  wine  " — the  aforesaid  glass  of  claret ; 
and  ways  and  means  are  provided  for  him  to  smoke 
his  cigar,  whether  he  wishes  it  or  not.  He  had  often 
laughed  at  these  regulations  of  his  careful  relatives,  but 
he  was  rather  glad  of  them  to-night.  "I  am  going  to 
get  Elinor  to  bed,"  said  Mrs.  Deunistoun.  "It  has, 
perhaps,  been  a  little  too  much  for  "her  :  but  when  you 
have  finished  your  cigar,  John,  if  you  will  come  back  to 
the  drawing-room  for  a  few  minutes  you  will  find  me 
here." 

John  did  not  smoke  any  cigar.  It  is  all  very  well  to 
be  soothed  and  consoled  by  tobacco  in  your  own  room, 
at  your  own  ease  :  but  when  you  are  put  into  a  la  lv'-, 


254  TEE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOfi. 

dining-room,  where  everything  is  nice,  and  where  the 
curtains  will  probably  smell  of  smoke  next  morning  : 
and  when  your  miud  is  exercised  beyond  even  the 
power  of  the  body  to  keep  still,  that  is  not  a  time  to 
enjoy  such  calm  and  composing  delights.  But  he 
walked  about  the  room  in  which  he  was  shut  up  like  a 
wild  beast  in  his  cage,  sometimes  with  long  strides  from 
wall  to  wall,  sometimes  going  round,  with  that  abstract 
trick  of  his,  staring  at  the  pictures,  as  if  he  did  not  know 
every  picture  in  the  place  by  heart.  He  forgot  that  he 
was  to  go  back  to  the  drawing-room  again  after  Elinor 
had  been  taken  to  bed,  and  it  was  only  after  having 
waited  for  him  a  long  time  that  Mrs.  Dennistoun  came, 
almost  timidly,  knocking  at  her  own  dining-room  door, 
afraid  to  disturb  her  visitor  in  the  evening  rites  which 
she  believed  in  so  devoutly.  She  did  go  in,  however, 
and  they  stood  together  over  the  fire  for  a  few  minutes, 
he  staring  down  upon  the  glow  at  his  feet,  she  contem- 
plating fitfully,  unconsciously,  her  own  pale  face  and 
his  in  the  dim  mirror  on  the  mantelpiece.  They  talked 
in  low  tones  about  Elinor  and  her  health,  and  her  de- 
•  termination  which  nothing  would  change. 

"Of  course  I  will  do  it,"  said  John;  "anything — 
whatever  she  may  require  of  me — there  are  no  two 
words  about  that.  There  is  only  one  thing  :  I  will  not 
compromise  her  by  taking  any  initiative.  Let  us  wait 
and  see  what  they  are  going  to  do " 

"  Biit,  John,  might  it  not  be  better  to  disarm  him  by 
making  overtures  ?  anything,  I  would  do  anything  if  he 
would  but  let  her  remain  unmolested — and  the  baby." 

"  Do  j'ou  mean  money  ?  "  he  said. 

Mrs.  Dennistouu  gave  him  an  abashed  look,  depre- 
catory and  wistful,  but  did  not  make  any  reply. 

"  Phil  Compton  is  a  cad,  and  a  brute,  and  a  scamp  of 
the  first  water,"  said  John,  glad  of  some  way  to  get  rid 
of  his  excitement ;  "  but  I  do  not  think  that  even  he 
would  sell  his  wife  and  his  shild  for  money.  I  wouldn't 
do  him  so  much  discredit  as  that." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  John,"  Mrs.  Dennistoutt 
said. 


TEE  UAliRlAVE   OF  ELIXOU. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

JOHN  left  the  Cottage  next  morning  with  the  full  con- 
duct of  the  affairs  of  the  family  placed  in  his  hands. 
The  ladies  were  both  a  little  doubtful  if  his  plan  was 
the  best — they  were  .still  frightened  .for  what  might 
happen,  and  kept  up  a  watch,  as  John  perceived,  fear- 
ing every  step  that  approached,  trembling  at  every 
shadow.  They  remembered  many  stories,  such  as  rush 
to  the  minds  of  persons  in  trouble,  of  similar  cases,  of 
the  machinations  of  the  bad  father  whose  only  object 
was  to  overcome  and  break  down  his  wife,  and  who 
stole  his  child  away  to  let  it  languish  and  die.  There 
are  some  circumstances  in  which  people  forget  all  the 
shades  of  character,  and  take  it  for  granted  that  a  mail 
who  can  go  wrong  in  one  matter  will  act  like  a  very 
demon  in  all.  This  was  doubly  strong  in  Mrs.  Dennis- 
touu,  a  woman  full  of  toleration  and  experience  ;  but 
the  issues  were  so  momentous  to  her,  and  the  possible 
results  so  terrible,  that  she  lost  her  accustomed  good 
sense.  It  was  more  natural,  perhaps,  that  Elinor,  who 
was  weak  in  health  and  still  full  of  the  arbitrarin*. 
youth,  should  entertain  this  fear — without  considering 
that  Phil  was  the  very  last  man  in  the  world  to  burden 
himself  with  an  infant  of  the  most  helpless  age — which 
seemed  to  John  an  almost  quite  unreasonable  one.  Al- 
most— for,  of  course,  he  too  was  compelled  to  allow, 
when  driven  into  a  ^corner,  that  there  was  nothing  that 
an  exasperated  man  might  not  do.  Elinor  had  come 
down  early  to  see  her  cousin  before  he  left  the  house, 
bringing  with  her  in  her  arms  the  little  bundle  of  mus- 
lin and  flannel  upon  the  safety  of  which  her  very  life 
seemed  to  depend.  John  looked  at  it,  and  at  the  small 
pink  face  and  unconscious  flickering  hands  that  formed 
the  small  centre  to  all  those  wrappings,  with  a  curious 
mixture  of  pity  and  repugnance.  It  was  like  any  other 
blind  new-born  kitten  or  puppy,  he  thought,  but  not  so 
amusing — no,  it  was  not  blind,  to  be  sure.  At  one 


liL'6  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

moment,  without  any  warning,  it  suddenly  opened  a 
pair  of  eyes,  which  by  a  lively  exercise  of  fancy  might 
be  supposed  like  Elinor's,  and  seemed  to  look  him  in 
the  face,  which  startled  him  very  much,  with  a  curious 
notification  of  the  fact  that  the  thing  was  not  a  kitten, 
or  a  puppy.  But  then  a  little  quiver  came  over  the 
small  countenance,  and  the  attendant  said  it  was  "the 
wind."  Perhaps  the  opening  of  the  eyes  was  the  wind 
too,  or  some  other  automatic  effect.  He  would  not 
hold  out  his  finger  to  be  clasped  tight  by  the  little 
flickering  fist,  as  Elinor  would  have  had  him.  He  would 
none  of  those  follies  ;  he  turned  away  from  it  not  to 
allow  himself  to  be  moved  by  the  effect,  quite  a  mere- 
tricious one,  of  the  baby  in  the  young  mother's  arms. 
That  was  all  poetry,  sentiment,  the  trick  of  the  painter, 
who  had  found  the  combination  beautiful.  Such  ideas 
belonged,  indeed,  to  the  conventional-sacred,  and  lie 
Lad  never  felt  any  profane  resistance  of  mind  against 
the  San  Sisto  picture  or  any  of  its  kind.  But  Phil  Comp- 
ton's  brat  was  a  very  different  thing.  "What  did  it  mat- 
ter what  became  of  it  ?  If  it  were  not  for  Elinor's  per- 
verse feeling  on  the  subject,  and  that  perfectly  imbecile 
prostration  of  her  mother,  a  sensible  woman  who  ought 
to  have  known  better,  before  the  little  creature,  he  would 
himself  have  been  rather  grateful  to  Phil  Cornptou  for 
taking  it  away.  But  when  he  saw  the  look  of  terror 
upon  Elinor's  face  when  an  unexpected  step  came  to 
the  door,  when  he  saw  her  turn  and  fly,  wrapping  the 
child  in  her  arms,  on  her  very  heart  as  it  seemed,  bend- 
ing over  it,  covering  it  so  that  it  disappeared  altogether 
in  her  embrace,  John's  heart  was  a  little  touched.  It 
was  only  a  hawking  tramp  with  pins  and  needles,  who 
came  by  mistake  to  the  hall  door,  but  her  panic  and 
anguish  of  alarm  were  a  spectacle  which  he  could  not 
get  out  of  his  eyes. 

"  You  see,  she  never  feels  safe  for  a  moment.  It  will 
be  hard  to  persuade  her  that  tiu«t  man,  though  I've  seen 
him  about  the  roads  for  years,  is  not  an  emissary — or 
a  spy — to  find  out  if  she  is  here." 

"I  am  sure  it  is  quite  an  unnecessary  panic,"  said 


OF  ELIXOR.  257 

John.     (tln  i:,  ice,  Phil  Compton's  the  last  man 

to  burden  himself  with  a  child  ;  in  the  second,  he's  not 
a  brute  nor  a  monster." 

"  You  called  him  a  brute  last  night,  John." 

"I  did  not  mean  in  that  way.  I  don't  mean  to  stand 
by  any  rash  word  that  may  be  forced  from  me  in  a  mo- 
ment of  irritation.  Aunt,  get  her  to  give  over  that. 
She'll  torture  herself  to  death  for  nothing.  He'll  not 
try  to  take  the  child  away — not  just  now.  at  all  events, 

not  while  it  is  a  mere Bring  her  to  her  senses  on 

that  point.     You  surely  can  do  that  ?  " 

"  If  I  was  quite  sure  of  being  in  my  own,"  Mrs.  Den- 
nistoun  said,  with  a  forlorn  smile.  "  I  am  as  much 
frightened  as  she  is,  John.  And,  remember,  if  there 
is  anything  to  be  done — anything " 

"  There  is  nothing  but  a  little  common  sense  wanted," 
said  John.  But  as  he  drove  away  from  the  door,  and 
saw  the  hawker  with  the  needles  still  about,  the  ladies 
had  so  infected  him  that  it  was  all  he  could  do  to  re- 
strain an  inclination  to  take  the  vagrant  by  the  collar 
and  throw  him  down  the  combe. 

"Who's  that  fellow  hanging  about?"  he  said  to 
Pearson,  who  was  driving  him  ;  "  and  what  does  he 
want  here  ?  " 

"Bless  you,  sir!  that's  Joe,"  Pearson  said.  "He's 
after  no  harm.  He's  honest  enough  as  long  as  there 
ain't  nothing  much  in  his  way  ;  and  he's  waiting  for 
the  pieces  as  cook  gives  him  once  a  week  when  he 
comes  his  rounds.  There's  no  harm  in  poor  Joe." 

"I  suppose  not,  since  you  say  so,"  said  John  ;  "  but 
you  know  the  ladies  are  rather  nervous,  Pearson.  You 
must  keep  a  look-out  that  no  suspicious-looking  person 
hangs  about  the  house." 

"  Bless  us  !  Mr.  John,''  said  Pearson,  "  what  are  they 
nervous  about  ? — the  baby  ?  But  nobody  wants  to 
Steal  a  baby,  bless  your  soul  !  " 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you,"  said  John,  much  relieved, 
gh  he  considered  Pearson  an  old  fool,  in  a  general 
to  have  his  own  opinion   confirmed.     "But,  all 
"•TSI»  same,  I  wish  vou  would  be  doubly  particular  not  to 
17 


258  THE  MAIIKIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

admit  anybody  you  don't  know  ;  and  if  any  man  should 
appear  to  bother  them  send  for  me  on  the  moment. 
Do  you  hear  ?  " 

"What  do  you  call  any  man,  sir ?"  said  Pearson, 
smartly.  He  had  ideas  of  his  own,  though  he  might  be 
a  fool. 

"I  mean  what  I  say,"  said  John,  more  sharply  still. 
"Any  one  that  molests  or  alarms  them.  Send  me  off 
a  telegram  at  once — 'You're  wanted!'  That  will  be 
quite  enough.  But  don't  go  with  it  to  the  office  your- 
self;  send  somebody — there's  always  your  boy  about 
the  place — and  keep  about  like  a  dragon  yourself." 

"I'll  do  my  best,  sir,"  said  Pearson,  "though  I  don't 
know  what  a  dragon  is,  except  it's  the  one  in  the  Bible  ; 
and  that's  not  a  thing  anybody  would  want  about  the 
place." 

It  was  a  comfort  to  John,  after  all  his  troubles,  to  be 
able  to  laugh,  which  he  .did  with  a  heartiness  which 
surprised  Pearson,  Avho  was  quite  unaware  that  he  had 
made  any  joke. 

These  foars,  however,  which  were  imposed  upon  him 
by  the  contagion  of  the  terrors  of  the  others,  soon 
passed  from  John's  ruind.  He  was  convinced  that 
Phil  Compton  would  take  no  such  step  ;  and  that,  how- 
ever much  he  might  wish  his  wife  to  return,  the  pos- 
session of  the  baby  was  not  a  thing  which  he  would 
struggle  over.  It  cannot  be  denied,  however,  that  he 
was  anxious,  and  eagerly  inspected  his  letters  in  the 
morning,  and  looked  out  for  telegrams  during  the  day. 
Fortunately,  however,  no  evil  tidings  came.  Mrs.  Den- 
nistoun  reported  unbroken  peace  in  the  Cottage  and  in- 
ci'easiug  strength  on  the  part  of  Elinor  ;  and,  in  a  paren- 
thesis with  a  sort  of  apology,  of  the  baby.  Nobody  had 
come  near  them  to  trouble  them.  Elinor  had  received 
no  letters.  The  tie  between  her  and  her  husband 
seemed  to  be  cut  as  with  a  knife.  "We  cannot  of 
course,"  she  said,  "  expect  this  tranquillity  to  last." 

And  it  came  to  be  a  very  curious  thought  with  John, 
as  week  after  week  passed,  whether  it  was  to  last — 
whether  Phil  Compton,  who  had  never  been  supposed 


THE  MARKTAftE   OF  ELINOR.  LV,» 

wanting  in  courage,  intended  to  let  his  wife  and  child 
drop  off  from  him  as  if  they  had  never  been.  This 
seemed  a  thing  impossible  to  conceive  :  but  John  said 
to  himself  with  much  internal  contempt  that  he  knew 
nothing  of  the  workings  of  the  mind  of  such  a  man, 
and  that  it  might  for  aught  he  knew  be  a  common  inci- 
dent in  life  with  the  Phil  Comptons  thus  to  shake  off 
their  belongings  when  they  got  tired  of  them.  The 
fool !  the  booby !  to  get  tired  of  Elinor !  That  ru- 
mour which  flies  about  the  world  so  strangely  and  com- 
municates information  about  everybody  to  the  vacant 
ear,  to  be  retailed  to  those  whom  it  may  concern,  pro- 
vided him,  as  the  days  went  by,  with  many  particulars 
which  he  had  not  been  able  to  obtain  from  Elinor. 
Phil,  it  appeared,  had  gone  to  Glenorban — the  great 
house  to  which  he  had  been  invited— alone,  with  an 
excuse  for  his  wife,  whose  state  of  health  was  not  ap- 
propriate to  a  large  party,  and  had  stayed  there  spend- 
ing Christmas  with  a  brilliant  houseful  of  guests,  among 
whom  was  the  American  lady  who  had  captivated  him. 
Phil  had  paid  one  visit  to  the  lodge  to  see  Elinor,  by 
her  mother's  summons,  at  the  crisis  of  her  illness,  but 
had  not  hesitated  to  go  away  again  when  informed  that 
the  crisis  was  over.  Mrs.  Deuiiistoun  never  told  what 
had  passed  between  them  on  that  occasion,  but  the 
gossips  of  the  club  were  credibly  informed  that  she 
had  bullied  and  stormed  at  Phil,  after  the  fashion  of 
mothers-in-law,  till  she  had  driven  him  away.  Upon 
which  he  had  returned  to  his  party  and  flirted  with 
Mrs.  Harris  more  than  ever.  John  discovered  also  that 
the  party  having  dispersed  some  time  ago,  Phil  had 
gone  abroad.  Whether  in  ignorance  of  his  wife's 
flight  or  not  he  could  not  discover  ;  but  it  was  almost 
impossible  to  believe  that  he  would  have  gone  to 
Monte  Carlo  without  rinding  out  something  about  Eli- 
nor— how  and  where  she  was.  But  whether  this  was 
the  cause  of  his  utter  silence,  or  whether  it  was  the 
habit  of  men  of  his  class  to  treat  such  tremendous  inci- 
dents in  domestic  life  with  levity,  John  Tatham  could 
not  make  out.  He  was  congratulating  himself,  how- 


•2  • !  i )  1  'II E  .  V.  L&fIA(  I K   0  r '  E  I.  IS  Oil. 

ever,  upon  keeping  perfectly  quiet,  and  leaving  the  con- 
duct of  the  matter  to  the  other  party,  when  the  silence 
was  disturbed  in  what  seemed  to  him  the  most  curious 
way. 

One  afternoon  when  he  returned  from  the  court  he 
Avas  aware,  when  he  entered  the  outer  office  in  which 
his  clerk  abode,  of  what  he  described  afterwards  as  a 
smell  fit  to  knock  you  down.  It  would  have  been  de- 
scribed more  appropriately  in  a  French  novel  as  the 
special  perfume,  subtle  and  exquisite,  by  which  a  beau- 
tiful woman  may  be  recognised  wherever  she  goes.  It 
was,  indeed,  neither  more  nor  less  than  the  particular 
scent  used  by  Lady  Mariainne,  who  came  forward  with 
a  sweep  and  rustle  of  her  draperies,  and  the  most  in- 
gratiating of  her  smiles. 

"It  appears  to  be  fated  that  I  am  to  wait  for  you," 
she  said.  "How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Tatham?  Take  me 
out  of  this  horrible  dirty  place.  I  am  quite  sure  you 
have  some  nice  rooms  in  there."  She  pointed  as  she 
spoke  to  the  inner  door,  and  moved  towards  it  with 
the  air  of  a  person  who  knew  where  she  was  going, 
and  was  fully  purposed  to  be  admitted.  John  said 
afterwards,  that  to  think  of  this  woman's  abominable 
scent  being  left  in  his  room  in  which  he  lived  (though 
he  also  received  his  clients  in  it)  was  almost  more  than 
he  could  bear.  But,  in  the  meantime,  he  could  do 
nothing  but  open  the  door  to  her,  and  offer  her  his 
most  comfortable  chair. 

She  seated  herself  with  all  those  little  tricks  of  move- 
ment which  are  also  part  of  the  stock-in-trade  of  the 
pretty  woman.  Lady  Mariamne's  prettiness  was  not  of 
•<\  kind  which  had  the  slightest  effect  upon  John,  but 
still  it  was  a  kind  which  received  credit  in  society,  being 
the  product  of  a  great  deal  of  pains  and  care  and  exqui- 
site arrangement  and  combination.  She  threw  her  fur 
cloak  back  a  little,  arranged  the  strings  of  her  bonnet 
under  her  chin,  which  threw  up  the  daintiness  and  rosi- 
ness  of  a  complexion  about  which  there  were  many 
questions  among  her  closest  friends.  She  shook  up, 
with  what  had  often  been  commented  upon  as  the 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELIXOR.  261 

prettiest  gesture,  the  bracelets  from  her  wrists.  She 
arranged  the  veil,  which  just  came  over  the  tip  of  her 
delicate  nose,  she  put  out  her  foot  as  if  searching  for  a 
footstool — which  John  made  haste  to  supply,  though  he 
remained  unaffected  otherwise  by  all  these  pretty  pre- 
liminaries. 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Tatham,"  then  said  Lady  Mariamne. 
"It  makes  me  wretchedly  uncomfortable,  as  if  you  were 
some  dreadful  man  waiting  to  be  paid  or  something,  to 
see  you  standing  there." 

Though  John's  first  impulse  waa  that  of  wrath  to  be 
thus  requested  to  sit  down  in  his  own  chambers,  the 
position  was  amusing  as  well  as  disagreeable,  and  he 
laughed  and  drew  a  chair  towards  his  writing-table, 
which  was  as  crowded  and  untidy  as  the  writing-table 
of  a  busy  man  usually  is,  and  placed  himself  in  an 
attitude  of  attention,  though  without  asking  any  ques- 
tion. 

"  Well,"  said  Lady  Mariamne,  slowly  drawing  off  her 
glove  ;  "you  know,  of  course,  why  I  have  come,  Mr. 
Tatham — to  talk  over  with  you,  as  a  man  Who  knows 
the  world,  this  deplorable  business.  You  see  it  has 
come  about  exactly  as  I  said.  I  knew  what  would  hap- 
pen :  and  though  I  am  not  one  of  those  people  who  al- 
ways insist  upon  being  proved  right,  you  remember 
what  I  said " 

"I  remember  that  you  said  something — to  which, 
perhaps^  had  I  thought  I  should  have  been  called  upon 
to  give  evidence  as  to  its  correctness — I  should  have 
paid  more  attention,  Lady  Mariamue." 

"  How  rude  you  are  !  "  she  said,  with  her  whole  in- 
terest concentrated  upon  the  slow  removal  of  her  glove. 
Then  she  smoothed  a  little,  softly,  the  pretty  hand  which 
was  thus  uncovered,  and  said,  "How  red  one's  hands 
get  in  this  weather,"  and  then  laughed.  "You  don't 
mean  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Tatham,"  she  said,  suddenly  rais- 
ing her  eyes  to  his,  "  that,  considering  what  a  very 
particular  person  we  were  discussing,  you  can't  remem- 
ber what  I  said  ?  " 

John   was   obliged   to   confess  that  he  remembered 


262  THE  MARRIAGE   OF   ELINOR. 

more  or  less  the  gist  of  her  discourse,  and  Lady 
Mariarnne  nodded  her  head  many  times  in  acceptance 
of  his  confession. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "you  see  what  it  has  come  to.  An 
open  scandal,  a  separation,  and  everything  broken  up. 
For  one  thing,  I  knew  if  she  did  not  give  him  his  head 
a  little  that's  what  would  happen.  I  don't  believe  he 
cares  a  brass  farthing  for  that  other  woman.  She  makes 
fun  of  everybody,  and  that  amused  him.  And  it  amused 
him  to  put  Nell  in  a  state — that  as  much  as  anything. 
Why  couldn't  she  see  that  and  learn  to  prendre  son  parti 
like  other  people  ?  She  was  free  to  say,  '  You  go  your 
way  and  I'll  go  mine  : '  the  most  of  us  do  that  sooner  or 
later :  but  to  make  a  vulgar  open  rupture,  and  go  off— 
like  this." 

"I  fail  to  see  the  vulgarity  in  it,"  said  John. 

"  Oh,  of  course  ;  everything  she  does  is  perfect  to 
you.  But  just  think,  if  it  had  been  your  own  case — 
followed  about  and  bullied  by  a  jealous  woman,  in  a 
state  of  health  that  of  itself  disgusts  a  man — 

"  Lady  Mariamue,  you  must  pardon  me  if  I  refuse  to 
listen  to  anything  more  of  this  kind,"  said  John,  starting 
to  his  feet. 

"  Oh,  I  warn  you,  you'll  be  compelled  to  listen  to  a 
great  deal  more  if  you're  her  agent  as  I  hear  !  Phil  will 
find  means  of  compelling  you  to  hear  if  you  don't  like 
to  take  your  information  from  me." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  how  Mr.  Phil  Compton  will 
succeed  in  compelling  me — to  anything  I  don't  choose 
to  do." 

"  You  think,  perhaps,  because  there's  no  duelling  in 
this  country  he  can't  do  anything.  But  there  is,  all  the 
same.  He  would  shame  you  into  it — he  could  say  you 
were — sheltering  yourself 

"  I  am  not  a  man  to  fight  duels,"  said  John,  very 
angry,  but  smiling,  "in  any  circumstances,  even  were 
such  a  thing  not  utterly  ridiculous  ;  but  even  a  fighting 
man  might  feel  that  to  put  himself  on  a  level  with  the 
dis-Hon " 

He  stopped  himself  as  he  said  it.     How  mean  it  was 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  203 

— to  a  woman  ! — descending  to  their  own  methods.  But 
Lady  Mariamne  was  too  quick  for  him. 

"  Oh,"  she  said  ;  "  so  you've  heard  of  that,  a  nickname 

that  no  gentleman "  then  she  too  paused  and  looked 

at  him,  with  a  momentary  flush.  He  was  going  to 
apologize  abjectly,  when  with  a  slight  laugh  she  turned 
the  subject  aside. 

"  Pretty  fools  we  are,  both  of  us,  to  talk  such  non- 
sense. I  didn't  come  here  carrying  Phil  on  my 
shoulders,  to  spring  at  your  throat  if  you  expressed 
your  opinion.  Look  here — tell  me,  don't  let  us  go  beat- 
ing about  the  bush,  Mr.  Tatham — I  suppose  you  have 
seen  Nell  ?  " 

"I  know  my  cousin's  mind,  at  least,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  then,  just  tell  me  as  between  friends — there's 
no  need  we  should  quarrel  because  they  have  done  so. 
Tell  me  this,  is  she  going  to  get  up  a  divorce  case " 

"  A  divorce !  " 

"Because,"  said  Lady  Mariamne,  "  she'll  find  it  pre- 
cious difficult  to  prove  anything.  I  know  she  will.  She 
may  prove  the  flirting  and  so  forth — but  what's  that  ? 
You  can  tell  her  from  me,  it  wants  somebody  far  better 
up  to  things  than  she  is  to  prove  anything.  I  warn  her 
as  a  friend  she'll  not  get  much  good  by  that  move." 

"  I  am  not  aware."  said  John,  "  whether  Mrs.  Comp- 
ton  has  made  up  her  mind  about  the  further  steps ' 

"Then  just  you  advise  her  not,"  cried  Lady  Ma- 
riamne. "It  doesn't  matter  to  me:  I  shall  be  none 
the  worse  whatever  she  does :  but  if  you  are  her  true 
friend  you  will  advise  her  not.  She  might  tell  what  she 
thinks,  but  that's  no  proof.  Mr.  Tatham,  I  know  you 
have  great  influence  with  Nell." 

"  Not  in  a  matter  like  this,"  said  John,  with  great 
gravity.  "Of  course  she  alone  can  be  the  judge." 

"  What  nonsense  you  talk,  you  men  !  Of  course  she 
is  not  the  least  the  judge,  and  of  course  she  will  be 
guided  by  you." 

"  You  may  be  sure  she  shall  have  the  best  advice  that 
I  can  give,"  John  said  with  a  bow. 

"  You  want  me  to  go,  I  see,"  said  Lady  Mariamne  ; 


L>G4  THE  MA liUl AGE  OF  ELINOR. 

"you  are  dreadfully  rude,  standing  up  all  the  time  to 
show  me  I  had  better  go."  Hereupon  she  recommenced 
her  little  manege,  drawing  on  her  glove,  letting  her 
bracelets  drop  again,  fastening  the  fur  round  her  throat. 
"Well,  Mr.  Tatham,"  she  said,  "I  hope  you  m<ean  to 
have  the  civility  to  see  after  my  carriage.  I  can't  go 
roaming  about  hailing  it  as  if  it  were  a  hansom  cab — in 
this  queer  place." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

JOHN  went  down  to  Windyhill  that  evening.  His  ap- 
pearance alarmed  the  little  household  more  than  words 
could  say.  As  he  was  admitted  at  once  by  the  servants, 
delighted  to  see  him,  he  walked  in  suddenly  into  the 
midst  of  a  truly  domestic  scene.  The  baby  lay  on 
Elinor's  knee  in  the  midst  of  amass  of  white  wrappings, 
ticking  out  a  pair  of  pink  little  legs  in  the  front  of  the 
fire.  Elinor  herself  was  seated  on  a  very  low  chair,  and 
illuminated  by  the  cheerful  blaze,  which  threw  a  glare 
upon  her  countenance,  and  called  out  unthought-of 
lights  in  her  hair,  there  was  no  appearance  in  her  looks 
of  anxiety  or  trouble.  She  was  altogether  given  up  to 
the  baby  and  the  joy  of  its  new  life.  The  little  kicking 
limbs,  the  pleasure  of  the  little  creature  in  the  warmth, 
the  curling  of  its  rosy  little  toes  in  the  agreeable  sensa- 
tion of  the  heat,  were  more  to  Elinor  and  to  her  mother, 
who  was  kneeling  beside  her  on  the  hearth-rug,  than  the 
most  refined  and  lofty  pleasures  in  the  world.  The 
most  lofty  of  us  have  to  come  down  to  those  primitive 
sources  of  bliss,  if  we  are  happy  enough  to  have  them 
placed  in  our  way.  The  greatest  poet  by  her  side,  the 
music  of  the  spheres  sounding  in  her  ear,  would  not 
have  made  Elinor  forget  her  troubles  like  the  stretching 
out  towards  the  fire  of  those  little  pink  toes. 

When  the  door  opened,  and  the  voice  and  step  of  a 
man — dreaded  sounds — were  audible,  a  thrill  of  terror 
ran  over  this  little  group.  Mrs.  Dennistoun  sprang  to 


THE  MARRIA^K   <>F  KL1XOR. 

her  feet  and  placed  herself  between  the  intruder  and 
the  young  mother,  while  Elinor  gathered  up,  covering 
him  all  over,  so  that  he  disappeared  altogether,  her 
child  in  her  arms. 

"  It  is  John,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun.  "  God  be 
thanked,  it  is  only  John." 

But  Elinor,  quite  overcome  by  the  shock,  burst 
suddenly  into  tears,  to  which  the  baby  responded  by  a 
vigorous  cry,  not  at  all  relishing  the  sudden  huddling 
up  among  its  shawls  to  which  it  had  been  subjected. 
It  may  be  supposed  what  an  effect  this  cloudy  side  of 
the  happiness,  which  .he  had  not.  been  able  to  deny  to 
himself  made  a  very  pretty  scene,  had  upon  John.  He 
sai.l,  not  without  a  little  offence,  "  I  am  sure  I  beg  your 
pardon  humbly.  I'll  go  away." 

Elinor  turned  round  her  head,  smiling  through  her 
tears.  "  It  was  only  that  you  gave  me  a  fright,"  she 
she  said.  "I  ana  quite  right  again  ;  don't,  oh,  don't  go 
away  !  unless  you  object  to  the  sight  of  baby,  and  to 
hear  him  cry  ;  but  he'll  not  cry  now,  any  more  than  his 
silly  mother.  Mamma,  make  John  sit  down  and  tell 
us— Oh,  I  am  sure  he  has  something  to  tell  us — Per- 
haps I  took  comfort  too  soon  ;  but  the  very  sight  ,of 
John  is  a  protection  and  a  strength,"  she  said,  holding 
out  her  hand  to  him.  This  sudden  change  of  front  re- 
duced John,  who  had  been  perhaps  disposed  for  a  mo- 
ment to  stand  on  his  dignity,  to  utter  subjection.  He 
neither  said  nor  even  thought  a  word  against  the  baby, 
who  was  presently  unfolded  again,  and  turned  once 
more  the  toes  of  comfort  towards  the  fire.  He  did  not 
approach  too  near,  feeling  that  he  had  no  particular 
share  in  the  scene,  and  indeed  cut  an  almost  absurd 
figure  in  the  midst  of  that  group,  but  sat  behind,  con- 
templating it  from  a  little  distance  against  the  fire. 
The  evening  had  grown  dark  by  this  time,  but  the  two 
women,  absorbed  by  their  worship,  had  wanted  no 
light.  It  had  happened  to  John  by  an  extreme  piece  of 
luck  to  catch  the  express  train  almost  as  soon  as  Lady 
Mariamne  had  left  him,  and  to  reach  the  station  at 
Hurrymere  before  the  February  day  was  done. 


260  TEE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

"  You  have  something  to  tell  us,  John — good  news 
or  bad  ?  "  Mrs.  Dennistoun  said. 

"  Good  ;  or  I  should  not  have  come  like  this  unan- 
nounced/' he  said.  "  The  post  is  quick  enough  for 
bad.  I  think  you  may  be  quite  at  your  ease  about  the 
child — no  claim  will  be  made  on  the  child.  Elinor,  I 
think,  will  not  be  disturbed  if — she  means  to  take  no 
steps  on  her  side." 

"  What  steps  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun.  Elinor  turned 
her  head  to  look  at  him  anxiously  over  the  back  of  her 
chair. 

"  I  have  had  a  visit  this  afternoon,"  he  said. 

"  From — "  Elinor  drew  a  long  hurried  breath.  She 
said  no  name,  but  it  was  evident  that  one  was  on  her 
lips — a  name  she  never  meant  to  pronounce  more,  but 
to  which  her  whole  being  thrilled  still  even  when  it  was 
unspoken.  She  looked  at  him  full  of  eagerness  to  hear 
yet  with  a  hand  uplifted,  as  if  to  forbid  any  utterance. 

"  From  Lady  Mariamne." 

How  her  countenance  fell !  She  turned  round  again, 
and  bent  over  her  baby.  It  was  a  pang  of  acute  disap- 
pointment, he  could  not  but  see,  that  went  through  her, 
though  she  would  not  have  allowed  him  to  say  that 
name.  Strange  inconsistency !  it  ran  over  John  too 
with  a  sense  of  keen  indignation,  as  if  he  had  taken 
from  her  an  electric  touch. 

" Whose  object  in  coming  to  me  was  to  ascertain 

whether  you  intended  to  bring  a  suit  for — divorce." 

A  cry  rang  through  the  room.  Elinor  turned  upon 
him  for  a  moment  a  face  blazing  with  hot  and  painful 
colour.  The  lamp  had  been  brought  in,  and  he  saw  the 
fierce  blush  and  look  of  horror.  Then  she  turned  round 
and  buried  it  in  her  hands. 

"Divorce!"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun.  "Elinor ! 

To  drag  her  private  affairs  before  the  world.  Oh,  John, 
John,  that  could  not  be.  You  would  not  wish  that  to 
be." 

"I!  "  he  cried  with  a  laugh  of  tuneless  mirth.  "  Is 
it  likely  that  I  would  wish  to  drag  Elinor  before  the 
world  ?  " 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR.  2»57 

Elinor  did  not  say  anything,  but  withdrew  one  hand 
from  her -burning  cheek  and  put  it  into  his.  These 
women  treated  John  as  if  he  were  a  man  of  wood. 
What  he  might  be  feeling,  or  if  he  were  feeling  any- 
thing, did  not  enter  their  minds. 

"It  was  like  her,"  said  Elinor  after  a  time  in  a  low 
hurried  voice,  "  to  think  of  that.  She  is  the  only  one 
who  would  think  of  it.  As  if  I  had  ever  thought  or 
dreamed " 

"  It  is  possible,  however,"  he  said,  "  that  it  might  be 
reasonable  enough.  I  don't  speak  to  Elinor,"  who  had 
let  go  his  hand  hastily,  "  but  to  you,  aunt.  If  it  is  al- 
together final,  as  she  says,  to  be  released  would  per- 
haps be  better,  from  a  bond  that  was  no  bond." 

"  John,  John,  would  you  have  her  add  shame  to 
pain  ?  " 

"The  shame  would  not  be  to  her,  aunt." 

"The  shame  is  to  every  one  concerned — to  every 
one !  My  Elinor's  name,  her  dear  name,  dragged 
through  all  that  mud  !  She  a  party,  perhaps,  to  rev- 
elations— Oh,  never,  never  !  "We  would  bear  anything 
rather." 

"  This  of  course,"  said  John,  "  is  perhaps  a  still  more 
bitter  punishment  for  the  other  side." 

She  looked  round  at  him  again.  Looking  up  with  a 
look  of  pale  horror,  her  eyelids  in  agonised  curves  over 
her  eves,  her  mouth  quivering.  "  What  did  you  say, 
John  ?  " 

"I  said  it  might  be  a  more  bitter  punishment  still 
for — the  other  side." 

Elinor  lifted  up  her  baby  to  her  breast,  raising  her- 
self with  a  new  dignity,  with  her  head  high.  "  I  meant 
no  punishment,"  she  said,  "  I  want  none.  I  have  left — 
what  killed  me — behind  me  ;  many  things,  not  one 
only.  I  have  brought  my  boy  away  that  he  may  never 
— never —  But  if  it  would  be  better  that — another 
should  be  free — " 

':  I  will  never  give  my  consent  to  it,  Elinor." 

"  Xor  I  with  my  own  mind  ;  but  if  it  is  vindictive — if 
it  is  revenge,  mother !  I  am  not  alone  to  think  of  my- 


2fiS  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

self.     If  it  were  better  for that  he  should  be  free  ; 

speak  to  John  about  it  and  tell  me.  I  cannot,  cannot 
discuss  it.  I  will  leave  it  all  to  John  and  you.  It  will 
kill  me  !  but  what  does  that  matter? — it  is  not  revenge 
that  I  seek." 

She  turned  with  the  baby  pressed  to  her  breast  and 
walked  away,  her  every  movement  showing  the  strain 
and  excitement  of  her  soul. 

"Why  did  you  do  this,  John,  without  at  least  con- 
sulting me  ?  You  have  thrown  a  new  trouble  into  her 
mind.  She  will  never,  never  do  this  thing — nor  would 
I  permit  it.  There  are  some  things  in  which  I  must 
take  a  part.  I  could  not  forbid  her  marriage ;  God 
grant  that  I  had  had  the  strength  to  do  it — but  this  I 
will  forbid,  to  expose  her  to  the  whole  world,  when 
everything  we  have  done  has  been  with  the  idea  of  con- 
cealing what  had  happened.  Never,  never.  I  will 
never  consent  to  it,  John." 

"  I  had  no  intention  of  proposing  such  a  step  ;  but 
the  other  side — as  we  are  bound  to  call  him — are  fright- 
ened about  it.  And  when  I  saw  her  look  up,  so  young- 
still,  so  sweet,  with  all  her  life  before  her,  and  thought 
how  she  must  spend  it — alone  ;  with  no  expanding,  no 
development,  in  this  cottage  or  somewhere  else,  a  life 
shipwrecked,  a  being  so  capable,  so  full  of  possibilities 
—lost." 

"I  have  spent  my  life  in  this  cottage,"  said  Mrs. 
Dennistoun.  "My  husband  died  when  I  was  thirt}' — 
my  life  was  over,  and  still  I  was  young  ;  but  I  had  Eli- 
nor. There  were  some  who  pitied  me  too,  but  their 
pity  was  uncalled  for.  Elinor  will  live  like  her  mother, 
she  has  her  boy." 

"But  it  is  different ;  you  cannot  but  see  the  differ- 
ence." 

"  Yes,  I  see  it — it  is  different ;  but  not  so  different 
that  my  Elinor's  name  should  be  placarded  about  the 
streets  and  put  in  all  the  newspapers.  Oh,  never, 
never,  John.  If  the  man  suffers,  it  is  his  fault.  She 
will  suffer,  and  it  is  not  her  fault ;  but  I  will  not,  to  re- 
lease him,  drag  my  child  before  the  world." 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR. 

Mrs.  Dennistoun  was  so  much  excited  that  she  L 
to  pace  about  the  room,  she  who  was  usually  so  sober 
and  self  restrained.  She  had  borne  much,  but  this  she 
was  unable  even  to  contemplate  with  calm.  For  once 
in  her  life  she  had  arrived  at  something  which  she 
would  not  bear.  John  felt  his  own  position  very  strange 
sitting  looking  on  as  a  spectator,  while  this  woman,  usu- 
ally so  self-controlled,  showed  her  impatience  of  circum- 
stances and  fate.  It  was  ruefully  comic  that  this  should 
be,  so  to  speak,  his  doing,  though  he  was  the  last  in  the 
world  to  desire  any  exposure  of  Elinor,  or  to  have  any 
sympathy  with  those  who  sought  justice  for  themselves 
or  revenge  on  others  at  such  a  cost. 

"I  was  rash  perhaps  to  speak  as  I  did,"  he  said  ;  "I 
had  no  intention  of  doing  it  when  I  came.  It  was  a 
mere  impulse,  seeing  Elinor  :  but  you  must  know  that 
I  agree  with  you  perfectly.  I  see  that  Elinor's  lot  is 
fixed  anyhow.  I  believe  that  no  decree  of  a  court  would 
make  any  difference  to  her,  and  she  would  not  change 
the  name  that  is  the  child's  name.  All  that  I  recognise. 
And  one  thing  more,  that  neither  you  nor  Elinor  has 
recognised.  They — he  is  afraid  of  any  proceedings — I 
suppose  I  may  mention  him  to  you.  It's  rather  absurd, 
don't  you  think,  speaking  of  a  fellow  of  that  sort,  or 
rather,  not  speaking  of  him  at  all,  as  if  his  name  was 
sacred  ?  He  is  afraid  of  proceedings — whatever  may  be 
the  cause." 

"John,  can't  you  understand  that  she  cannot  bear  to 
speak  of  him,  a  man  she  so  fought  for,  against  us  all  ? 
And  now  her  eyes  are  opened,  she  is  undeceived,  she 
knows  him  all  through  and  through,  more,  far  more, 
than  we  do.  She  opened  her  mind  to  me  once,  and 
only  once.  It  was  not  thai  alone  ;  oh,  no,  no.  There 
are  things  that  rankle  more  than  that,  something  he 
did  before  they  were  married,  and  made  her  help  him 
to  conceal.  Something  dishon — I  can't  say  the  word, 
John." 

"Oh,"  said  John,  grimly,  "you  need  not  mind 
me." 

"  Well,  the  woman — I  blush  to  have  to  speak  to  you 


'270  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

even  of  such  a  thing — the  woman,  John,  was  not  the 
worst.  She  almost  might,  I  think,  have  forgiven  that. 
It  was  one  thing  after  another,  and  that,  that  first  bus- 
iness the  worst  of  all.  She  found  it  out  somehow,  and 
lit'  had  made  her  take  a  part — I  can't  tell  what.  She 
would  never  open  her  lips  011  the  subject  again.  Only 
that  once  it  all  burst  forth.  Oh,  divorce  !  What  would 
that  do  to  her,  besides  the  shame?  You  understand 
some  things,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  with  a  smile, 
"  though  you  are  a  man.  She  would  never  do  anything 
to  give  herself  a  name  different  from  her  child's." 

"Yes,"  said  John,  with  a  laugh,  "  I  think  I  understand 
a  thing  or  two,  though,  as  you  say,  my  dear  aunt,  I  am 
only  a  man.  However,  it  is  just  as  well  I  am  that  im- 
perfect creature,  to  take  care  of  you.  It  understands 
the  tactics  of  the  wicked  better  than  you  do.  And  now 
you  must  persuade  Elinor  and  persuade  yourself  of 
what  I  came  here  on  purpose  to  tell  you — not  to  dis- 
turb you,  as  I  have  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  do.  You 
are  perfectly  safe  from  him.  I  will  not  let  the  enemy 
know  your  sentiments,  or  how  decided  you  are  on  the 
subject.  I  will  perhaps,  if  you  will  let  me,  crack  the 
whip  a  little  over  their  heads,  and  keep  them  in  a  pleas- 
ing uncertainty.  But  as  long  as  he  is  afraid  that  she 
will  take  proceedings  against  him,  he  will  take  none,  you 
may  be  sure,  against  her.  So  you  may  throw  aside  all 
your  precautions  and  be  happy  over  your  treasure  in 
your  own  way." 

"  Thank  God  for  what  you  say,  John  ;  you  take  a 
weight  off  my  heart.  But  happy — how  can  you  speak 
of  being  happy  after  such  a  catastrophe  ?  " 

"  I  thought  I  came  in  upon  a  very  happy  little  scene. 
It  might  be  only  pretence,  but  it  looked  uncommonly 
like  the  real  thing." 

"  You  mean  the  baby,  John,  the  dear  infant  that 
knows  no  harm.  He  does  take  off  our  thoughts  a  little, 
and  enable  us  to  bear ' 

"  Oh,  aunt,  don't  be  a  hypocrite  ;  that  was  never  a 
fault  of  yours.  Confess  that  with  all  your  misery  about 
Elinor  you  are  happy  to  have  her  here  and  her  child — 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  271 

notwithstanding  everything — happy  as  you  have  not 
been  for  many  a  day." 

She  sat  down  by  him  and  gave  him  her  hand.  "  John, 
to  be  a  man  you  have  wonderful  insight,  and  it's  I  who 
am  a  very,  very  imperfect  creature.  You  don't  think 
worse  of  me  to  be  glad  to  have  her,  even  though  it  is 
purchased  by  such  misery  arid  trouble  ?  God  knows," 
cried  the  poor  lady,  drying  her  eyes,  "  that  I  would  give 
her  up  to-morrow,  and  with  joy,  and  consent  never  to 
see  her  again,  if  that  would  be  for  her  happiness.  John  ! 
I've  not  thrust  myself  upon  them,  have  I,  nor  done  any- 
thing against  him,  nor  said  a  word  ?  But  now  that  she 
is  here,  and  the  baby,  and  all  to  myself — whicli  I  never 
hoped — would  I  not  be  an  ungrateful  woman  if  I  did 
not  thank  God  for  it,  John  ?  " 

"  You  are  an  excellent  special  pleader,  aunt,"  he  said, 
with  a  laugh,  "  as  most  women  whom  I  have  known 
are  :  and  I  agree  with  you  in  everything.  You  behaved 
to  them,  while  it  was  tJiem,  angelically  :  you  effaced 
yourself,  and  I  fully  believe  you  never  said  a  word 
against  him.  Also,  I  believe  that  if  circumstances 
changed,  if  anything  happened  to  make  her  see  that  she 
could  go  back  to  him " 

Mrs.  Dennistoim  started  in  spite  of  herself,  and 
pressed  her  hands  together,  with  a  half  sob  of  dismay. 

"  I  don't  think  it  likely,  but  if  it  were  so,  you  would 
sacrifice  yourself  again — I  haven't  a  doubt  of  it  Why, 
then,  set  up  this  piece  of  humbug  to  me  who  know  you 
so  well,  and  pretend  that  you  are  not  very  happy  for  the 
moment  ?  You  are,  and  you  have  a  good  right  to  be  : 
and  I  say  enjoy  it,  my  dear  aunt ;  take  all  the  good  of 
it,  you  will  have  no  trouble  from  him." 

"  You  think  so,  you  really  think  so,  John?  " 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it  :  and  you  must  persuade 
Elinor.  Don't  think  I  am  making  light  of  the  situation  : 
you'll  have  plenty  to  trouble  you  no  doubt,  when  that 
little  shaver  grows  up " 

"  John  ! " 

"  Well,  he  is  a  little  shaver  (whatever  that  may  mean 
I'm  sure  I  don't  know),  if  he  were  a  little  piince. 


'J72  THK  MMUiL\dK   OF  KLIXOR. 

When  lie  grows  up  you  will  Lave  your  business  laid  out 
for  you,  and  I  don't  envy  you  the  clearing  up — 

"John  don't  speak  as  if  a  time  would  come  when  you 
would  not  stand  by  us.  I  mean  stand  by  Elinor." 

"Your  first  phrase  was  much  the  best.  I  will  stand 
by  you  both  as  a  matter  of  course." 

"  You  must  consider  I  shall  be  an  old  woman  then  ; 
and  who  knows  if  I  may  live  to  see  the  poor  little 
darling  grow  up  ?  " 

"  The  poor  little  darling  may  never  grow  up,  and 
none  of  us  may  live  to  see  it.  •  One  prediction  is  as 
good  as  another  :  but  I  think  better  things  of  you,  aunt, 
than  that  you  would  go  and  die  and  desert.  Elinor,  un- 
less '  so  be  as  you  couldn't  help  it,'  as  Pearson  says. 
But,  however,  in  the  meantime,  dying  of  anybody  is 
not  in  the  question,  and  I  hope  both  you  and  she  will 
take  as  much  pleasure  out  of  the  baby  and  be  as  happy 
as  circumstances  will  allow.  And  I'll  tell  Pearson  that 
there  is  no  need  for  him  to  act  the  dragon — either  the 
Bible  one,  whom  lie  did  not  think  you  would  like  to 
have  about  the  house,  or  any  other — for  the  danger  is 
over.  Trust  me  at  least  for  that." 

"I  trust  you  for  everything,  John  ;  but,"  added  Mrs. 
Dennistoun,  "  I  wouldn't  say  anything  to  Pearson.  If 
you've  told  him  to  be  a  dragon,  let  him  be  a  dragon 
still.  I  am  sure  you  are  right,  and  I  will  tell  Elinor  so, 
and  comfort  her  heart  ;  but  we  may  as  well  keep  a  good 
look  out,  and  our  eyes  about  us,  all  the  same." 

•'  They  are  sure  I  am  right,  but  think  it  bettor  to  go 
on  as  if  I  were  wrong,"  John  said  to  himself  as  he  went 
to  dress  for  dinner.  And  while  he  went  through  this 
ceremony,  he  had  a  great  many  thoughts — half-impa- 
tient, half-tender — of  the  wonderful  ways  of  women 
which  are  so  ama/ing  to  men  in  general,  as  the  ways  of 
men  are  amazing  to  women,  and  will  be  so,  no  doubt, 
as  long  as  the  world  goes  on.  The  strange  mixture  of 
the  wise  and  the  foolish,  the  altogether  heroic,  and  the 
involuntarily  fictitious,  struck  his  keen  perception  with 
a  humourous  understanding,  and  amusement,  and 
sympathy.  That  Mrs.  Dennistoun  should  pose  a  little 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  273 

as  a  sufferer  while  she  was  unmitigated!}7  happy  in  the 
possession  of  Elinor  and  the  child,  and  be  abashed  when 
she  was  forced  to  confess  how  ecstatic  was  the  fearful 
joy  which  she  snatched  in  the  midst  of  danger,  was 
strange  enough.  But  that  Elinor,  at  this  dreadful 
crisis  of  her  life,  when  every  bond  was  rent  asunder, 
and  all  that  is  ordinarily  called  happiness  wrecked  for 
ever,  should  be  moved  to  the  kind  of  rapture  he  had 
seen  in  her  face  by  the  reaching  out  and  curling  in  of 
those  little  pink  toes  in  the  warm  light  of  the  fire,  was 
inconceivable — a  thing  that  was  not  in  any  philosophy. 
She  had  made  shipwreck  of  her  life.  She  had  torn  the 
man  whom  she  loved  out  of  her  heart,  and  fled  from 
his  neglect  and  treachery — a  fugitive  to  her  mother's 
house.  And  yet  as  she  sat  before  the  fire  with  this  lit- 
tle infant  cooing  in  the  warmth — like  a  puppy  or  a  little 
pig,  or  any  other  little  animal  you  can  suggest — this  was 
the  thought  of  the  irreverent  man — there  was  a  look 
of  almost  more  than  common  happiness,  of  blessedness, 
in  her  face.  Who  can  fathom  these  things?  They 
were  at  least  beyond  the  knowledge,  though  not  the 
sympathy,  of  this  very  rising  member  of  the  bar. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THUS  there  came  a  sort  of  settling  down  and  com- 
posure of  affairs.  Phil  Compton  and  all  belonging  to 
him  disappeared  from  the  scene,  and  Elinor  returned 
to  all  the  habits  of  her  old  life — all  the  habits,  with  one 
extraordinary  and  incalculable  addition  which  changed 
all  these  habits.  The  baby  —  so  inconsiderable  a  lit- 
tle creature,  not  able  to  show  a  feeling,  or  express  a 
thought,  or  make  even  a  tremulous  step  from  one  pair 
of  loving  arms  to  another — an  altogether  helpless  little 
bundle,  but  nevertheless  one  who  had  already  altered 
the  existence  of  the  cottage  and  its  inhabitants,  and 
made  life  a  totally  different  thing  for  them.  Can  I  tell 
18 


274  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

how  this  was  done  ?  No  doubt  for  the  wisest  objects, 
to  guard  the  sacred  seed  of  the  race  as  mere  duty  could 
never  guard  it,  rendering  it  the  one  thing  most  precious 
in  the  world  to  those  to  whom  it  is  confided — at  least 
to  most  of  them.  When  that  love  fails,  then  is  the  deep- 
est abyss  of  misery  reached.  I  do  not  say  that  Elinor 
was  happy  in  this  dreadful  breaking  up  of  her  life,  or 
that  her  heart  did  not  go  back,  with  those  relentings 
which  are  the  worst  part  of  every  disruption,  to  the  man 
who  had  broken  her  heart  and  unsettled  her  nature. 
The  remembrance  of  him  in  his  better  moments  would 
flash  upon  her,  and  bear  every  resentment  away. 
Dreadful  thoughts  of  how  she  might  herself  have  done 
otherwise,  have  rendered  their  mutual  life  better,  would 
come  over  her  ;  and  next  moment  recollections  still 
more  terrible  of  what  he  had  done  and  said,  the  scorn 
she  had  borne,  the  insults,  the  neglect,  and  worse  of  all 
the  complicity  he  had  forced  upon  her,  by  which  he 
had  made  her  guilty  when  she  knew  and  feared  noth- 
ing —  when  these  thoughts  overcame  her,  as  they  did 
twenty  times"  in  a  day,  for  it  is  the  worst  of  such 
troubles  that  they  will  not  be  settled  by  one  struggle, 
but  come  back  and  back,  beginning  over  again  at  the 
same  point,  after  we  have  wrestled  through  them,  and 
have  thought  that  we  had  come  to  a  close —when  these 
thoughts,  I  say,  overcame  her,  she  would  rush  to  the 
room  in  which  the  baby  held  his  throne,  and  press  him 
to  the  heart  which  was  beating  so  hotly,  till  it  grew 
calm.  And  in  the  midst  of  all  to  sit  down  by  the  fire 
with  the  little  atom  of  humanity  in  her  lap,  and  see  it 
spread  and  stretch  its  rosy  limbs,  would  suffice  to  bring 
again  to  Jier  face  that  beatitude  which  had  filled  John 
Tatham  with  wonder  unspeakable.  She  took  the  baby 
and  laid  him  on  her  heart  to  take  the  pain  away  :  and 
so  after  a  minute  or  two  there  was  no  more  question 
of  pain,  but  of  happiness,  and  delicious  play,  and  the 
raptures  of  motherhood.  How  strange  were  these 
things !  She  could  not  understand  it  herself,  and 
fortunately  did  not  try,  but  accepted  that  solace  pro- 
vided by  God.  As  for  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  she  made  uo 


TllK  MARRIAGE  OF  ELISVli. 

longer  any  pretences  to  herself,  but  allowed  herself,  as 
John  had  advised,  to  take  her  blessedness  frankly  with- 
out hypocrisy.  When  Elinor's  dear  face  was  veiled  by 
misery  her  -mother  was  sympathetically  miserable,  but 
at  all  other  moments  her  heart  sang  for  joy.  She  had 
her  child  again,  and  she  had  her  child's  child,  an  end- 
less occupation,  amusement,  and  delight.  All  this 
might  come  to  an  end — who  can  tell  when  ? — but  for 
the  moment  her  house  was  no  more  lonely,  the  re- 
quirements of  her  being  were  satisfied.  She  had 
her  Elinor — what  more  was  to  be  said?  And  yet  there 
was  more  to  be  said,  for  in  addition  there  was  the 
boy. 

This  was  very  well  so  far  as  the  interior  of  the  house 
and  of  their  living  was  concerned,  but  very  soon  other 
difficulties  arose.  It  had  been  Mrs.  Dennistoun's  desire, 
when  she  returned  home,  to  communicate  some  modi- 
fied version  of  what  had  happened  to  the  neighbours 
around.  She  had  thought  it  would  not  only  be  wise, 
but  easier  for  themselves,  that  their  position  should  be 
understood  in  the  little  parish  society  which,  if  it  did 
not  know  authoritatively,  would  certainly  inquire  and 
investigate  and  divine,  with  the  result  of  perhaps  be- 
lieving more  than  the  truth,  perhaps  setting  up  an  en- 
tirely fictitious  explanation  which  it  would  be  impossi- 
ble to  set  aside,  and  very  hard  to  bear.  It  is  the  worst 
of  knowing  a  number  of  people  intimately,  and  being 
known  by  them  from  the  time  your  children  were  in 
their  cradles,  that  every  domestic  incident  requires 
some  sort  of  explanation  to  this  close  little  circle  of 
spectators.  But  Elinor,  who  had  not  the  experience  of 
her  mother  in  such  matters,  nor  the  knowledge  of  life, 
made  a  strenuous  opposition  to  this.  She  would  not 
have  anything  said.  It  was  better,  she  thought,  to  leave 
it  to  their  imagination,  if  they  chose  to  interfere  with 
their  neighbours'  concerns  and  imagine  anything.  "  But 
why  should  they  occupy  themselves  about  us?  And 
they  have  no  imaginations,"  she  said,  with  a  contempt 
of  her  neighbours  which  is  natural  to  young  people, 
though  very  unjustifiable.  "But,  my  darling,"  Mrs. 


L'70  THE  MAR1UAUE  OF  ELINOR. 

<S 

Dennistoun  would  say,  "  the  position  is  so  strange. 
There  are  not  many  young  women  who — And  there 
must  be  some  way  of  accounting  for  it.  Let  us  just 
tell  them " 

"For  heaven's  sake,  mamma,  tell  them  nothing !  I 
have  come  to  pay  you  a  long  visit  after  my  neglect  of 
you  for  these  two  years,  which,  of  course,  they  know 
well  enough.  What  more  'do  they  want  to  know  ?  It  is 
a  very  good  reason  :  and  while  baby  is  so  young  of 
course  it  is  far  better  for  him  to  be  in  a  settled  home, 
where  he  can  be  properly  attended  to,  than  moving 
about.  Isn't  that  enough  ?  " 

"  Well,  Elinor  ;  at  least  you  will  let  me  say  as  much 
as  that " 

"  Oh,  they  can  surely  make  it  out  for  themselves. 
What  is  the  use  of  always  talking  a  matter  over,  to  lead 
to  a  little  more,  and  a  little  more,  till  the  appetite  for 
gossip  is  satisfied  ?  Surely,  in  our  circumstances,  least 
said  is  soonest  mended,"  Elinor  said,  with  that  air  of 
superior  understanding  which  almost  always  resides  in 
persons  of  the  younger  generation.  Mrs.  Dennistoun 
said  no  more  to  her,  but  she  did  take  advantage  of  the 
explanation  thus  suggested.  She  informed  the  anxious 
circle  at  the  Rectory  that  Elinor  had  come  to  her  on  a 
long  visit,  "  partly  for  me,  and  partly  for  the  baby,"  she 
said,  with  one  of  those  smiles  which  are  either  the 
height  of  duplicity  or  the  most  pathetic  evidence  of 
self-control,  according  as  you  choose  to  regard  them. 
"  She  thinks  she  has  neglected  her  mother,  though  I  am 
sure  I  have  never  blamed  her ;  and  she  thinks — of  which 
there  can  be  no  doubt — that  to  carry  an  infant  of  that 
age  moving  about  from  place  to  place  is  the  worst  thing 
in  the  world  ;  and  that  I  am  very  thankful  she  should 
think  so,  I  need  not  say." 

"It  is  very  nice  for  you,  dear  Mrs.  Dennistoun," 
Mrs.  Hudson  said. 

"  And  a  good  thing  for  Elinor,"  said  Alice,  "  for  she 
is  looking  very  poorly.  I  have  always  heard  that 
fashionable  life  took  a  great  deal  out  of  you  if  you  are 
not  quite  brought  up  to  it.  I  am  sure  I  couldu't  stand 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  277 

it,"  the  young  lady  said  with  fervour,   who  had  never 
had  that  painful  delight  in  her  power. 

"That  is  all  very  well,"  said  the  Rector,  rubbing  his 
hands,  "  but  what  does  Mr.  Comptou  say  to  it?  I  don't 
want  to  say  a  word  against  your  arrangements,  my  dear 
lady,  but  you  know  there  must  be  some  one  on  the  hus- 
band's side.  Now,  I  am  on  the  husband's  side,  and  I 
am  sorry  for  the  poor  young  man.  I  hope  he  is  going 
to  join  his  wife.  I  hope,  excuse  me  for  saying  it,  that 
Elinor— though  we  are  all  so  delighted  to  see  her—will 
not  forsake  him,  for  too  long." 

And  then  Mrs.  Dennistoun  felt  herself  compelled  to 
embroider  a  little  upon  her  theme. 

"  He  has  to  be  a  great  deal  abroad  during  this  year," 
she  said  ;  "  he  has  a  great  many  things  to  do.  Elinor 
does  not  know  when  he  will  be — home.  That  is  one 
reason — • — " 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,"  the  Rector  said,  rubbing 
his  hands  still  more,  and  coming  to  her  aid  just  as  she 
was  breaking  down.  "  Something  diplomatic,  of  course. 
Well,  we  must  not  inquire  into  the  secrets  of  the  State. 
But  what  an  ease  to  his  mind,  my  dear  lady,  to  think 
that  his  wife  and  child  will  be  safe  with  you  while  he's 
away  ! " 

Mary  Dale  not  being  present  could  not  of  course  say 
anything.  She  was  a  person  who  was  alwaj's  dreadfully 
well  informed.  It  was  a  comfort  unspeakable  that  at 
this  moment  she  was  away  ! 

This  explanation  made  the  spring  pass  quietly 
enough,  but  not  without  many  questions  that  brought 
the  blood  to  Elinor's  face.  When  she  was  asked  by  some 
one,  for  the  first  time,  "When  do  you  expect  Mr. 
Compton,  Elinor  ?  "  the  sudden  wild  flush  of  colour 
which  flooded  her  countenance  startled  the  questioner 
as  much  as  the  question  did  herself.  "  Oh,  I  beg  your 
pardon  !  "  said  the  injudicious  but  perfectly  innocent 
seeker  for  information.  I  fear  that  Elinor  fell  upon  her 
mother  after  this,  and  demanded  to  know  what  she  had 
said.  But  as  Mrs.  Dennistoun  was  innocent  of  anything 
but  having  said  that  Philip  was  abroad,  there  was  no 


278  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

satisfaction  to  be  got  out  of  that.  Some  time  after,  one 
of  the  Miss  Hills  congratulated  Elinor,  having  seen  in 
the  papers  that  Mr.  Compton  was  returning  to  town  for 
the  season.  "  I  suppose,  dear  Elinor,  we  shan't  have 
you  with  us  much  longer,"  this  lady  said.  And  then  it 
became  known  at  the  Cottage  that  Mary  Dale  was  re- 
turning to  the  Itectory.  -This  was  the  last  aggravation, 
and  Elinor,  who  had  now  recovered  her  strength  and 
energy,  and  temper  along  with  it,  received  the  ne^  s 
with  an  outburst  of  impatience  which  frightened  her 
mother.  "You  may  as  well  go  through  the  parish  and 
ring  the  bell,  and  tell  everybody  everything,"  she  said. 
"  Mary  Dale  will  have  heard  all,  and  a  great  deal  more 
than  all  ;  she  will  come  with  her  budget,  and  pour  it 
out  far  and  wide  ;  she  will  report  scenes  that  never  took 
place :  and  quarrels,  and  all  that — that  woman  insinu- 
ated to  John — and  she  will  be  surrounded  with  people 
who  will  shake  their  heads,  and  sink  their  voices  when 
we  come  in  and  say,  '  Poor  Elinor  ! '  I  cannot  bear  it,  I 
cannot  bear  it,"  she  cried. 

"My  darling!  that  was  bound  to  come  sooner  or 
later.  AVe  must  set  our  faces  like  a  rock,  and  look  as  if 
we  were  unaware  of  anything " 

"I  cannot  look  as  if  I  were  unaware.  I  cannot  meet 
all  their  cruel  eyes.  I  can  see,  now,  the  smile  on  Mary 
Dale's  face,  that  will  say,  '  I  told  you  so.'  I  shall  hear 
her  say  it  even  when  I  am  in  my  room,  with  the  combe 
between.  I  know  exactly  how  she  will  say  it — '  If  Elinor 
had  listened  to  me ' 

'•  Elinor,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  "  I  cannot  con- 
tradict you,  dear.  It  will  be  so — but  none  of  them  are 
cruel,  not  even  Mary  Dale.  They  will  make  their  re- 
marks— who  could  help  it  ?  we  should  ourselves  if  it 
were  some  one  else's  case  :  but  they  will  not  be  cruel — • 
don't  think  so — they  will  be  full  of  sympathy 

"  Which  is  a  great  deal  worse,"  Elinor  said,  in  her 
unreason  ;  "  the  one  might  be  borne,  but  the  other  I 
will  not  endure.  Sympathy,  yes  !  They  will  all  be  sorry 
for  me — they  will  say  they  knew  how  it  would  be.  Oh, 
I  know  I  have  not  profited  as  I  ought  by  what  has  hap- 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  279 

pened  to  me.  I  am  unsubdued.  I  am  as  impatient  and 
as  proud  as  ever.  It  is  quite  true,  but  it  cannot  be 
mended.  It  is  more  than  I  can  bear." 

"  My  darling,"  said  her  mother,  again.  "  We  all  say 
that  in  our  trouble,  and  yet  we  know  that  we  have  got 
to  bear  it  all  the  same.  It  is  intolerable — one  says  that 
a  thousand  times — and  yet  it  has  to  be  put  up  with. 
All  the  time  that  we  have  been  flattering  ourselves  that 
nobody  took  any  notice  it  has  been  a  delusion,  Eli- 
nor. How  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  We  must  set  our 
faces " 

"Not  I,  mamma!"  she  said.  "Not  I!  I  must  go 
away " 

"G-oaway?    Elinor!" 

"  Among  strangers  ;  where  nobody  has  heard  of  me 
before — where  nobody  can  make  any  remark.  To  live 
like  this,  among  a  crowd  of  people  who  think  they  ought 
to  know  everything  that  one  is  doing — who  are  nothing 
to  you,  and  yet  whom  you  stand  in  awe  of  and  must  ex- 
plain everything  to ! — it  is  this  that  is  intolerable.  I 
cannot,  cannot  bear  it.  Mother,  I  will  take  my  baby, 
and  I  will  go  away " 

"  Where  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  with  all  the  colour 
fading  out  of  her  face.  What  panic  had  taken  her  I 
cannot  telL  She  grew  pale  to  her  lips,  and  the  words 
were  almost  inaudible  which  she  breathed  forth.  I 
think  she  thought  for  a  moment  that  Elinor's  heart  had 
turned,  that  she  was  going  back  to  her  husband  to  find 
refuge  with  him  from  the  strife  of  tongues  which  she 
could  not  encounter  alone.  All  the  blood  went  back 
upon  the  mother's  heart — yet  she  set  herself  to  suppress 
all  emotion,  and  if  this  should  be  so,  not  to  oppose  it — 
for  was  it  not  the  thing  of  all  others  to  be  desired — the 
thing  which  everybody  would  approve,  the  reuniting  of 
those  whom  God  had  put  together  ?  Though  it  might 
be  death  to  her,  not  a  word  of  opposition  would  she 
say. 

"  Where  ?  how  can  I  tell  where — anywhere,  anywhere 
out  of  the  world,"  cried  Elinor,  in  the  boiling  tide  of 
her  impatience  and  wretchedness,  "  where  nobody  ever 


2^0  THE  MARRIAGE   OF  KLTNOR. 

heard  of  us  before,  where  there  will  be  no  one  to  ask, 
no  one  to  require  a  reason,  where  we  should  be  free  to 
move  when  we  please  and  do  as  we  please.  Let  ine  go, 
mother.  I  seemed  too  dear,  too  peaceful  to  come  home, 
but  now  home  itself  has  become  intolerable.  I  will 
take  my  baby  and  I  will  go — to  the  farthest  point  the 
railway  can  take  me  to — with  no  servant  to  betray  me, 
not  even  an  address.  Mother,  let  me  go  away  and  be 
lost ;  let  me  be  as  if  I  had  never  been." 

"And  me — am  I  to  remain  to  bear  the  brunt  be- 
hind?" 

"  And  you — mamma  !  Oh,  I  am  the  most  unworthy 
creature.  I  don't  deserve  to  have  you,  I  that  am  always 
giving  you  pain.  Why  should  I  unroot  you  from  your 
place  where  you  have  lived  so  long— from  your  flowers, 
and  your  landscape,  and  your  pretty  rooms  that  were 
always  a  comfort  to  think  of  in  that  horrible  time  when 
I  was  away  ?  I  always  liked  to  think  of  you  here, 
happy  and  quiet,  in  the  place  you  had  chosen." 

"Flowers  and  landscapes  are  pretty  things,"  said 
Mrs.  Dennistouu,  whose  colour  had  begun  to  come 
again  a  little,  "  but  they  don't  make  up  for  one's  chil- 
dren. .We  must  not  do  anything  rashly,  Elinor  ;  but 
if  what  you  mean  is  really  that  you  will  go  away  to  a 
strange  place  among  strangers — 

"What  else  could  I  mean?"  Elinor  said,  and  then 
she  in  her  turn  grew  pale.  "  If  you  thought  I  could 
mean  that  I  would  go — back — 

"  Oh,  my  darling,  my  darling  !  God  knows  if  we 
are  right  or  wrong — I  not  to  advise  you  so,  or  you  not 
to  take  my  advice.  Elinor,  it  is  my  duty,  and  I  will 
say  it  though  it  were  to  break  my  heart.  There  only 
could  you  avoid  this  strife  of  tongues.  John  spoke  the 
truth.  He  said,  as  the  boy  grew  up  we  should  have — ' 
many  troubles.  I  have  known  women  endure  every- 
thing that  their  children  might  grow  up  in  a  natural 
situation,  in  their  proper  sphere.  Think  of  this — I  am 
saying  it  against  my  own  interest,  against  my  own 
heart.  But  think  of  it,  Elinor.  Whatever  you  might 
have  to  bear,  you  would  be  in  your  natural  place." 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  281 

Elinor  received  this  agitated  address  standing  up, 
holding  her  head  high,  her  nostrils  expanded,  her  lips 
apart.  "Have  you  quite  done,  mother?  "  she  said. 

Mrs.  Dennistoun  made  an  appealing  movement  with 
her  hands,  and  sank,  without  any  power  to  add  a  word, 
into  a  chair. 

"I  am  glad  you  said  it  against  your  heart.  Now  you 
must  feel  that  your  conscience  is  clear.  Mother,  if  I 
had  to  wander  the  world  from  place  to  place,  without 
even  a  spot  of  ground  on  which  to  rest  my  foot,  I  would 
never,  never  do  what  you  say.  What !  take  my  child 
to  grow  up  in  that  tainted  air ;  give  him  up  to  be 
taught  such  tilings  as  they  teach  !  Never,  never,  never  ! 
His  natural  place,  did  you  say  ?  I  would  rather  the 
slums  of  London  were  his  natural  place.  He  would 
have  some  chance  there  !  If  I  could  bear  it  for  my- 
self, yet  I  could  not  for  him — for  him  most  of  all.  I 
will  take  him  up  in  my  arms.  Thank  God,  I  am  strong 
now  an  ft.  can  carry  him  —  and  go  away  —  among 
strangers,  I  don't  care  where — where  there  can  be  no 
questions  and  no  remarks." 

"  But  not  without  me,  Elinor  !  " 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother  !  What  a  child  I  am  to  you, 
to  rend  your  heart  as  I  have  done,  and  now  to  tear  you 
out  of  your  house  and  home  !  " 

"  My  home  is  where  my  children  are,"  Mrs.  Denuis- 
touu  said  :  and  then  she  made  a  little  pause.  "  But 
we  must  think  it  over,  Elinor.  Such  a  step  as  this 
must  not  be  taken  rashly.  We  will  ask  John  to  come 
down  and  advise  us.  My  dear " 

"No,  mother,  not  John  or  any  one.  I  will  go  first  if 
you  like  and  find  a  place,  and  you  will  join  me  after. 
That  woman  "  (it  was  poor  Mary  Dale,  who  was  indeed 
full  of  information,  but  meant  no  harm)  "is  coming 
directly.  I  will  not  wait  here  to  see  her,  or  their  faces 
after  she  has  told  them  all  the  lies  she  will  have  heard. 
I  am  not  going  to  take  advice  from  any  one.  Let  me 
alone,  mother.  I  must.  I  must  go  away." 

"  But  not  by  yourself,  Elinor,"  Mrs.  Dennistoun  said. 

This  was  how  it  happened  that  John  Tatham,  who 


282  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

had  meant  to  go  down  to  the  Cottage  the  very  next 
Saturday  to  see  how  things  were  going,  was  driven 
into  a  kind  of  stupefaction  one  morning  in  May  by  a 
letter  which  reached  him  from  the  North,  a  letter  con- 
veying news  so  unexpected  and  sudden,  so  unlike  any- 
thiug  that  had  seemed  possible,  that  he  laid  it  down, 
when  it  was  half  read,  with  a  gasp  of  astonishment, 
unable  to  believe  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

IT  was  Mrs.  Dennistoun  whose  letter  brought  John 
Tatham  such  dismay.  It  was  dated  Lakeside,  Water- 
dale,  Penrith — an  address  with  which  he  had  no  asso- 
ciations whatever,  and  which  he  gazed  at  blankly  for  a 
moment  before  he  attempted  to  read  the  letter,  not 
knowing  how  to  connect  it  with  the  well-known  writing 
which  was  as  familiar  as  the  common  day. 

"  You  will  wonder  to  see  this  address*,"  she  wrote. 
"  You  will  wonder  still  more,  dear  John,  when  I  tell 
you  we  have  come  here  for  good.  I  have  left  the 
Cottage  in  an  agent's  hands  with  the  hope  of  letting  it. 
Wiadyhill  is  such  a  healthy  place  that  I  hope  somebody 
will  soon  be  found  to  take  it.  You  know  Elinor  would 
not  let  me  make  any  explanation.  And  the  constant 
questions  and  allusions  to  his  movements  which  people 
had  seen  in  the  papers,  and  so  forth,  had  got  on  her 
nerves,  poor  child.  You  can  understand  how  easily 
this  might  come  about.  At  last  she  got  that  she  could 
not  bear  it  longer.  Mary  Dale,  who  always  lives  half 
the  year  with  her  sister  at  the  Rectory,  was  coming- 
back.  You  know  it  was  she  who  brought  the  first  tale 
about  him,  and  she  knows,  I  think,  all  the  gossip  that 
ever  was  got  up  about  any  one.  Poor  Elinor — though 
I  don't  believe  Mary  bad  any  bad  meaning  ;  and  it 
would,  alas !  have  been  for  all  our  good  had  we  listened 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  283 

to  what  she  said — Elinor  cannot  bear  her  ;  and  when 
she  heard  she  was  coming,  she  declared  she  would  take 
her  baby  and  go  away.  I  tried  to  bring  her  to  reason, 
but  I  could  not.  Naturally  it  was  she  who  convinced 
me — you  know  the  process,  John.  Indeed,  in  many 
things  I  can  see  it  is  the  best  thing  we  could  do.  I  am 
not  supremely  attached  to  Windyhill.  The  Cottage 
had  got  to  be  very  homelike  after  living  in  it  so  long, 
but  home  is  where  those  are  whom  one  loves.  And  to 
live  among  one  set  of  people  for  so  many  years,  if  it  has 
great  advantages,  has  at  the  same  time  very  great  dis- 
advantages too.  You  can't  keep  anything  to  yourself. 
You  must  explain  every  step  you  take,  and  everything 
that  happens  to  you.  This  is  a  lovely  country,  a  little 
cold  as  yet,  and  a  little  damp  perhaps,  being  so  near 
the  lake— but  the  mountains  are  beautiful,  and  the  air 
delicious.  Elinor  is  out  all  the  day  long,  and  baby 
grows  like  a  dower.  You  must  come  and  see  us  as 
soon  as  ever  you  can.  That  is  one  dreadful  drawback, 
that  we  shall  not  have  you  running  up  and  down  from 
Saturday  to  Monday  :  and  I  am  afraid  you  will  be  ^exed 
with  us  that  we  did  not  take  your  advice  first  —  you. 
who  have  always  been  our  adviser.  But  Elinor  would 
not  hear  a  word  of  any  advice.  I  think  she  was  afraid 
you  would  disapprove  :  and  it  would  have  been  worse 
to  fly  in  your  face  if  you  had  disapproved  than  to  come 
away  without  consulting  you  :  and  you  know  how  im- 
petuous she  is.  At  all  events  the  die  is  cast.  Write 
kindly  to  her  ;  don't  say  anything  to  vex  her.  You  can 
let  yourself  out,  if  you  are  very  angry,  upon  me. 

"  One  thing  more.  She  desires  that  if  you  write  you 
should  address  her  as  J7>.<  Compton  only,  no  Honour- 
able. That  might  attract  attention,  and  what  we  desire 
is  to  escape  notice  altogether,  which  I  am  sure  is  a 
thing  you  will  thoroughly  understand,  now  that  we 
have  transplanted  ourselves  so  completely.  Dear  John, 
form  the  most  favourable  idea  you  can  of  this  sudden 
step,  and  come  and  see  us  as  soon  as  it  is  possible. 

"Yours  afiectly., 

"it  D." 


TffK   MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

To  say  that  John  was  thunderstruck  by  this  letter  is 
to  describe  his  sensations  mildly,  for  he  was  for  a  time 
bitterly  angry,  wounded,  disappointed,  disturbed  to  the 
bottom  of  his  soul ;  but  perhaps  if  truth  were  told 
it  could  scarcely  be  said  that  he  disapproved.  He 
thought  it  over,  which  he  naturally  did  all  that  day,  to 
the  great  detriment  of  his  work,  first  with  a  sort  of  rage 
against  Elinor  and  her  impetuosity,  which  presently 
shaded  down  into  understanding  of  her  feelings,  and 
ended  in  a  sense  that  he  might  have  known  it  from  the 
first,  and  that  really  no  other  conclusion  was  possible. 
He  came  gradually  to  acquiesce  in  the  step  the  ladies 
had  takeil.  To  have  to  explain  everything  to  the  Hud- 
!sons,  and  Hills,  and  Mary  Dales,  to  open  up  your  most 
sacred  heart  in  order  that  they  might  be  able  to  form  a 
theoiy  sufficient  for  their  outside  purposes  of  your 
motives  and  methods,  or,  what  was  perhaps  worse  still 
— to  know  that  they  were  or.  the  watch,  guessing  what 
you  did  not  tell  them,  putting  things  together,  explain- 
ing this  and  that  in  their  own  way — would  have  been 
intolerable.  "  That  is  the  good  of  having  attached 
friends,"  John  exclaimed  to  himself,  very  unjustly  :  for 
it  is  human  nature  that  is  to  blame,  if  there  is  any 
blame  attaching  to  an  exercise  of  ingenuity  so  inevitable. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  when  Miss  Dale  brought  the  true 
or  something  like  the  true  account  to  Wiudyhill,  the 
warmth  of  the  sympathy  for  Elinor,  the  wrath  of  the 
whole  community  with  her  unworthy  husband,  was 
almost  impassioned.  Had  she  been  there  it  would  not 
have  been  possible  for  those  good  people  altogether  to 
conceal  from  her  how  sorry  and  how  indignant  they 
were  ;  even  perhaps  there  might  have  been  some  who 
could  not  have  kept  out  of  their  eyes,  who  must  have 
betrayed  in  some  word  or  shake  of  the  head  the  "  I  told 
you  so  "  which  is  so  clear  to  human  nature.  But  how 
was  it  possible  that  they  could  remain  uninterested, 
unaffected  by  the  trouble  in  the  midst  of  them,  or  even 
appear  to  be  so  ?  John,  like  Elinor,  threw  a  fiery  dart 
of  impatience  at  the  country  neighbours,  not  allowing 
that  everywhere  in  the  greatest  town,  in  the  most  cos- 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELlXUll.  L'85 

mopolitan  community,  this  would  have  been  the  same. 
"  The  chattering  gossips  !  "  he  said,  as  if  a  club  would 
not  have  been  a  great  deal  worse,  as  if  indeed  his  own 
club,  vaguely  conscious  of  a  connection  by  marriage  be- 
tween him  and  the  dis-Honourable  Phil,  had  -not  dis- 
cussed it  all,  behind  his  back,  long  ago.  . 

But  on  the  whole  John  was  forced  not  to  disapprove. 
y  that  he  went  the  length  of  approving  would  be 
too  much,  and  to  deny  that  he  launched  forth  a  tre- 
mendous letter  upon  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  who  always 
bore  the  brunt,  is  more  than  my  conscience  would 
permit.  He  did  do  this,  throwing  out,  as  the  French 
say,  fire  and  flame,  but  a  few  days  after  followed  it  up 
by  a  much  milder  letter  (need  I  say  this  was  addressed 
to  Elinor  ?),  allowing  that  he  understood  their  motives, 
and  that  perhaps,  from  their  own  point  of  view,  they 
were  not  so  very  much  to  blame.  "  You  will  find  it 
very  damp,  very  cold,  very  different  from  Windy  hill," 
he  said,  with  a  sort  of  savage  satisfaction.  But  as  it 
happened  to  be  unusually  good  weather  among  the 
lakes  when  his  letter  came,  this  dart  did  not  do  much 
harm.  And  that  John  felt  the  revolution  in  his  habits 
consequent  upon  this  move  very  much,  it  would  be 
futile  to  deny.  To  have  nowhere  to  go  to  freely  when 
he  pleased  from  Saturday  to  Monday  (he  had  at  least 
a  score  of  places,  but  none  like  the  Cottage)  made  a 
wonderful  difference  in  his  life.  But  perhaps  when  he 
came  to  think  of  it  soberly,  as  he  did  so  often  in  the 
brilliant  Saturday  afternoons  of  early  summer,  when  the 
sunshine  on  the  trees  made  his  heart  a  little  sick  with 
the  idea  that  he  had,  as  he  said  to  himself,  nowhere  to 
goto,  he  was  not  sure  that  the  difference  was  not  on  the 
whole  to  his  advantage.  A  man  perhaps  should  not 
have  it  in  his  power  to  enjoy,  in  the  most  fraternal  in- 
timacy, the  society  of  another  man's  wife  whenever  he 
pleased,  even  if  to  her  he  was,  as  he  knew,  of  as  little 
importance  (notwithstanding  that  she  was,  as  she  would 
have  said,  so  fond  of  John)  as  the  postman,  say,  or  any 
other  secondary  (Vet  sufficiently  interesting)  figure  in 
the  country  neighbourhood.  John  knew  in  his  heart 


286  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

of  hearts  that  this  was  not  a  good  thing  nor  a  whole- 
some  thing  for  him.  He  was  not  a  man,  as  has  been 
said,  who  would  ever  have  hurried  events,  or  insisted 
upon  appropriating  a  woman,  even  when  he  loved  her, 
and  securing  her  as  his  very  own.  He  would  always 
have  been  able  to  put  that  off,  to  subordinate  it  to  the 
necessity  of  getting  on  in  the  world,  and  securing  his 
position  :  and  he  was  by  no  means  sure  when  he  ques- 
tioned his  own  heart  (which  was  a  thing  he  did  seldom, 
knowing,  like  a  wise  man,  that  that  shifty  subject  often 
made  queer  revelations,  and  was  not  at  all  an  easy  object 
to  cross-examine),  that  the  intercourse  which  he  had 
again  dropped  into  \vith  Elinor  was  not  on  the  whole  as 
much  as  he  required.  There  was  no  doubt  that  it  kept 
him  alive  from  one  period  to  another  ;  kept  his  heart 
moderately  light  and  his  mind  wonderfully  contented — 
as  nothing  else  had  ever  done.  He  looked  forward  to  his 
fortnightly  or  monthly  visit  to  the  Cottage  (sometimes 
one,  and  sometimes  the  other  ;  he  never  indulged  him- 
self so  far  as  to  go  every  week),  and  it  gave  him  happi- 
ness enough  to  tide  over  all  the  dull  moments  between : 
and  if  anything  came  in  his  way  and  detained  him  even 
from  his  usual  to  a  later  train,  he  was  ridiculously, 
absurdly  angry.  What  right  had  he  to  feel  so  in  re- 
spect to  another  man's  wife  ?  What  right  had  he  to 
watch  the  child — the  child  whom  he  disliked  so  much  to 
begin  with — developing  its  baby  faculties  with  an  interest 
he  was  half  ashamed  of,  but  which  went  on  increasing  ? 
Another  man's  wife  and  another  man's  child.  He  saw 
now  that  it  was  not  a  wholesome  thing  for  him,  and  he 
could  never  have  given  it  up  had  they  remained.  It  had 
become  too  much  a  part  of  his  living  ;  should  he  not 
be  glad  therefore  that  they  had  taken  it  into  their  own 
hands,  and  gone  away  ?  When  it  suddenly  occurred 
to  John,  however,  that  this  perhaps  had  some  share  in 
the  ladies'  hasty  decision,  that  Mrs.  Dennistoun  perhaps 
(all  that  was  objectionable  was  attributed  to  this  poor 
lady)  had  been  so  abominably  clear-sighted,  so  odiously 
presuming  as  to  have  suspected  this,  his  sudden  blaze 
of  anger  was  fbiidroyunt.  Perhaps  she  had  settled 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  1^7 

upon  it  for  his  sake,  to  take  temptation  out  of  his  way. 
John  could  scarcely  contain  himself  when  this  view  of 
the  case  flashed  upon  him,  although  he  was  quite  aware 
for  himself  that  though  it  was  a  bitter  wrench,  yet  it 
was  perhaps  good  for  him  that  Elinor  should  go  away. 
It  was  probably  this  wave  of  fierce  and,  as  we  are 
aware,  quite  unreasonable  anger  rushing  over  him  that 
produced  the  change  which  everybody  saw  in  John's  life 
about  this  time.  It  was  about  the  beginning  of  the 
season  when  people's  enjoyments  begin  to  multiply, 
and  for  the  first  time  iu  his  life  John  plunged  into 
society  like  a  very  novice.  He  went  everywhere.  By 
this  time  he  had  made  a  great  start  in  life,  had  been 
brought  into  note  in  one  or  two  important  cases,  and 
was,  as  everybody  knew,  a  young  man  very  well  thought 
of,  and  likely  to  do  great  things  at  the  bar  ;  so  that  he 
was  free  of  many  houses,  and  had  so  many  invitations 
for  his  Sundays  that  he  could  well  afford  to  be  indiffer- 
ent  to  the  loss  of  such  a  humble  house  as  the  Cottage 
at  Windy  hill.  Perhaps  he  wanted  to  persuade  himself 
that  this  was  the  case,  and  that  there  really  was  noth- 
ing to  regret.  And  it  is  certain  that  he  olid  visit  a  great 
deal  during  that  season  at  one  house  where  there  were 
two  or  three  agreeable  daughters  ;  the  house,  indeed,  of 
Sir  John  Gaythorne,  who  was  Solicitor-General  at  that 
time,  and  a  man  who  had  always  looked  upon  John 
Tatham  with  a  favourable  eye.  The  Gaythornes  had  a 
house  near  Dorking,  where  they  often  went  from  Sat- 
urday to  Monday  with  a  few  choice  convives,  and  "  pick- 
nicked,"  as  they  themselves  said,  but  it  was  a  picknick- 
ing  of  a  highly  comfortable  sort.  John  went  down  with 
them  the  very  Saturday  after  he  received  that  letter — 
the  Saturday  on  which  he  had  intended  to  go  to  Windy- 
hill.  And  the  party  was  very  gay.  To  compare  it  for 
a  moment  with  the  humdrum  family  at  the  Cottage 
would  have  been  absurd.  The  Gaythornes  prided  them- 
selves on  always  having  pleasant  people  with  them,  and 
they  had  several  remarkably  pleasant  people  that  day, 
among  whom  John  himself  was  welcomed  by  most  per- 
sons ;  and  the  family  themselves  were  lively  and  agree- 


THE  MARRIAGE  0V  ELINOR. 

able  to  a  Ligli  degree.  A  distinguished  father,  a  very 
nice  mother,  and  three  charming  girls,  up  to  everything 
find  who  knew  everybody  ;  who  had  read  or  skimmed 
nil  the  new  books  of  any  importance,  and  had  seen  all 
the  new  pictures  ;  who  could  talk  of  serious  things  as 
well  as  they  could  talk  nonsense,  and  who  were  good 
girls  to  boot,  looking  after  the  poor,  and  visiting  at 
hospitals,  in  the  intervals  of  their  gaieties,  as  was  then 
the  highest  fashion  in  town.  I  do  not  for  a  moment 
mean  to  imply  that  the  Miss  Gaythornes  did  their  good 
work  because  it  was  the  fashion  :  but  the  fact  that  it  is 
the  fashion  has  liberated  many  girls,  and  allowed  them 
to  carry  out  their  natural  wishes  in  that  way,  who 
otherwise  would  have  been  restrained  and  hampered  by 
parents  and  friends,  who  would  have  upbraided  them 
with  making  themselves  remarkable,  if  in  a  former  gen- 
eration they  had  attempted  to  go  to  Whitechapel  or  St. 
Thomas's  with  any  active  intentions.  And  Elinor  had 
never  done  anything  of  this  kind,  any  more  than  she 
had  pursued  music  almost  as  a  profession,  which  was 
what  Helena  Gaythorne  had  done  ;  or  learned  to  draw, 
like  Maud  (who  once  had  a  little  thing  in  the  Royal 
Academy)  ;  or  studied  the  Classics,  like  Gertrude. 
John  thought  of  her  little  tunes  as  he  listened  to  Miss 
Gaythorne's  performance,  and  almost  laughed  out  at  the 
comparison.  He  was  very  fond  of  music,  and  Miss  Gay- 
thorne's playing  was  something  which  the  most  culti- 
vated audience  might  have  been  glad  to  listen  to.  He 
was  ashamed  to  confess  to  himself  that  he  liked  the 
"tunes"  best.  No,  he  would  not  confess  it  even  to 
himself  ;  but  when  he  stood  behind  the  performer  lis- 
tening, it  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  capable  of  walk- 
ing all  the  miles  of  hill  and  hollow  which  divided  the 
one  place  from  the  other,  only  for  the  inane  satisfaction 
of  seeing  that  baby  spread  on  Elinor's  lap,  or  hearing 
her  play  to  him  one  of  her  "  tunes." 

He  went  with  the  Gaythornes  to  their  country-place 
twice  in  the  month  of  June,  and  dined  at  the  house  sev- 
eral times,  and  was  invited  on  other  occasions,  becom- 
ing, in  short,  one  of  the  habitues  when  there  was  any- 


THE  ITAlllilAtrE   OF  ELIXOR. 

thing  going  on  in  the  house — till  people  began  to  ask, 
which  was  it?  It  was  thought  generally  that  Helena 
was  the  attraction,  for  John  was  known  to  be  a  musical 
man,  always  to  be  found  where  specially  good  tuusic 

oing.  Some  friends  of  the  family  had  even  gone 
so  far  as  to  say  among  themselves  what  a  good  thing  it 
was  that  dear  Helena's  lot  was  likely  to  be  cast  with 
one  who  would  appreciate  her  gift.  •'  It  generally  hap- 
pens in  these  cases  that  a  girl  marries  somebody  who 
does  not  know  one  note  from  another,"  they  said  to 
each  other.  When,  all  at  once,  John  flagged  in  his  vis- 
its ;  went  no  more  to  Dorking ;  and  liually  ceased  to 
be  more  assiduous  or  more  remarked  than  the  other 
young  men  who  were  on  terms  of  partial  intimacy  at  the 
Gaythorne  house.  He  had,  indeed,  tried  very  hard  to 
make  himself  fall  in  love  with  one  of  Sir  John's  girls. 
It  would  have  been  an  excellent  connection,  and  the 
man  might  think  himself  fortunate  who  secured  any 
one  of  the  three  for  his  wife.  Proceeding  from  his  cer- 
tainty on  these  points,  and  also  a  general  liking  for 
their  company,  John  had  gone  into  it  with  a  settled 
purpose,  determined  to  fall  in  love  if  he  could  :  but  he 
found  that  the  thing  was  not  to  be  done.  It  was  a  pity  ; 
but  it  could  not  be  helped.  He  was  in  a  condition  now 
when  it  would  no  longer  be  rash  to  marry,  and  he  knew 
now  that  there  was  the  makings  of  a  domestic  man  in 
him.  He  never  could  have  believed  that  he  would  take 
an  interest  in  the  sprawling  of  the  baby  upon  its 
mother's  knee,  and  he  allowed  to  himself  that  it  might 
be  sweet  to  have  that  scene  taking  place  in  a  house  of 
his  own.  Ah  !  but  the  baby  would  have  to  be  Elinor's. 
It  must  be  Elinor  who  should  sit  on  that  low  chair  with 
the  firelight  on  her  face.  And  that  was  impossible. 
Helena  Gaythorue  was  an  exceedingly  nice  girl,  and  he, 
wished  her  every  success  in  life  (which  she  attained 
some  time  after  by  marrying  Lord  Ballinasloe,  the  eld- 

>u  of  the  Earl  of  Athenree,  a  marriage  which  every- 
body approved),  but  he  could  not  persuade  himself  to 
be  in  love  with  her,  though  with  the  best  will  in  the 
world. 

19 


290  TUK  MMililAdE   OF  ELINOIL 

During  this  time  he  did  not  correspond  much  with 
his  relations  in  the  country.  He  had,  indeed,  some  let- 
ters to  answer  from  his  father,  in  which  the  interroga- 
tories were  very  difficult  :  "  Where  has  Mary  Dennis- 
toun  gone  ?  What's  become  of  Elinor  and  her  baby  ? 
Has  that  fashionable  fellow  of  a  husband  deserted  her? 
What's  the  meaning  of  the  move  altogether  ? "  And, 
'•  Mind  you  keep  yourself  out  of  it,"  his  father  wrote. 
John  had  great  trouble  in  wording  his  replies  so  as  to 
i-on  voy  as  little  information  as  possible.  "I  believe 
Aunt  Mary  has  got  a  house  somewhere  in  the  North, 
probably  to  suit  Elinor,  who  would  be  able  to  be  more 
with  her  if  she  were  in  that  neighbourhood."  (It  must 
be  confessed  that  he  thought  this  really  clever  as  a  way 
of  getting  over  the  question. )  "As  for  Compton,  I  know 
very  little  about  him.  He  was  never  a  man  much  in 
my  way."  Mr.  Tatham's  household  saw  nothing  remark- 
able in  these  replies  ;  upon  which,  however,  they  built 
an  explanation,  such  as  it  was,  of  the  other  circum- 
stances. They  concluded  that  it  must  be  in  order  to  be 
.near  Elinor  that  Mrs.  Dennistouii  had  gone  to  the 
North,  and  that  it  was  a  very  good  thing  that  Elinor's 
husband  was  not  a  num.  who  was  in  John's  way.  "  A 
scamp,  if  I  ever  saw  one  !  "  Mr.  Tatham  said.  "  But 
what's  that  Jack  says  about  Gaythorne?  Mary,  I  re- 
member Gray  thorn e  years  ago  ;  a  capital  friend  for  a 
young  man.  I'm  glad  your  brother's  making  such  nice 
friends  for  himself  ;  far  better  than  mooning  about 
that  wretched  little  cottage  with  Mary  Dennistoun  and 
her  girl." 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

IT  happened  thus  that  it  was  not  till  the  second 
autumn  after  the  settlement  of  the  ladies  in  Waterdale, 
when  all  the  questions  had  died  out,  and  there  was  no 
more  talk  of  them,  except  on  occasions  when  a  sudden 
recollection  cropped  up  among  their  friends  at  Windy- 


THE  VAHRIAKE  OF  ELI S OR.  291 

hill,  that  John  Tatham  paid  them  his  first  visit.  He 
had  been  very  conscientious  in  his  proposed  bestowal 
of  himself. ,  Perhaps  it  is  scarcely  quite  complimentary 
to  a  woman  when  she  is  made  choice  of  by  a  .man  who 
is  consciously  to  himself  "  on  the  outlook,"  thinking 
that  he  ought  to  many,  and  investigating  all  the  suit- 
able persons  about  with  an  eve  to  finding  one  who  will 
answer  his  requirements.  This  sensible  way  of  ap- 
proaching the  subject  of  matrimony  does  not  somehow 
commend  itself  to  our  insular  notions.  It  is  the  right 
way  in  every  country  except  our  own,  but  it  has  a  cold- 
blooded look  to  the  Anglo-Saxon;  and  a  girl  is  not 
flittered  (though  perhaps  she  ought  to  be)  by  being  the 
subject  of  this  sensible  choice.  "  As  if  I  were  a  house- 
keeper or  a  cook  !  "  she  is  apt  to  say,  and  is  far  better 
pleased  to  be  fallen  in  love  with  in  the  most  rash  and 
irresponsible  way  than  to  be  thus  selected  from  the 
crowd  :  though  that,  everybody  must  allow,  after  due 
comparison  and  inspection,  is  by  far  the  greater  com- 
pliment. John  having  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  it 
would  be  better  for  him  in  many  ways  to  many,  and 
specially  in  the  way  of  Elinor,  fortifying  him  for  ever 
from  all  possible  complications,  and  making  it  possible 
for  him  to  regard  her  evermore  with  the  placid  feelings 
of  a  brother,  which  was,  he  expected,  to  be  the  conse- 
quence— worked  at  the  matter  really  with  great  perti- 
nacity and  consistency.  He  kept  his  eyes  open  upon 
the  whole  generation  of  girls  whom  he  met  with  in  so- 
ciety. When  he  went  abroad  during  the  long  vacation 
(instead  of  going  to  Lakeside,  as  he  was  invited  to  do), 
he  directed  his  steps  rather  to  the  fashionable  resorts, 
where  families  disport  themselves  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountains,  than  to  the  Alpine  heights  where  he  had 
generally  found  a  more  robust  amusement.  And 
wherever  he  went  he  bent  his  attention  on  the  fairer 
portion  of  the  creation,  the  girls  who  fill  all  the  hotels 
with  the  flutter  of  their  fresh  toilettes  and  the  babble 
of  their  pleasant  voices.  It  was  very  mean  and  poor  of 
him,  seeing  he  was  a  mountaineer  himself — but  still  it 
must  be  recorded  that  the  only  young  ladies  he  system- 


•2(J-2  THE   MMUUAUK   Oh'  EL1XOR. 

atically  neglected  were  those  in  very  short  petti* 
with  very  sunburnt  faces  and  nails  in  their  boots,  who 
ought  to  have  been  most  congenial  to  him  as  sharing 
his  own  tastes.  It  is  said,  I  don't  know  with  what  truth, 
that  at  Ouch,  or  Interlachen,  or  some  other  of  the  most 
mundane  and  banal  resorts  of  the  tourists,  he  came 
upon  one  girl  who  he  thought  might  make  him  a  suit- 
able wife  :  and  that,  though  with  much  moderation  and 
prudence,  he  more  or  less  followed  her  party  for  some 
time,  meeting  them  over  and  over  again,  with  expres- 
sions of  astonishment,  round  the  most  well-known  cor- 
ners, and  persisting  for  a  considerable  time  in  this 
quest.  But  whether  he  ever  came  the  length  of  propos- 
ing at  all,  or  whether  the  young  lady  was  engaged  be- 
forehand, or  if  she  thought  the  prospect  of  making  a 
suitable  wife  not  good  enough,  I  cannot  say,  and  I 
doubt  whether  any  one  knows — except,  of  course,  the 
parties  immediately  concerned.  It  is  very  clear,  at  all 
events,  that  it  came  to  nothing.  John  did  not  alto- 
gether give  it  up,  I  fancy,  for  he  went  a  great  deal  into 
society  still,  especially  in  that  avant  saixon,  which  peo- 
ple who  live  in  London  declare  to  be  the  most  enjoy- 
able, and  when  it  is  supposed  you  can  enjoy  the  best  of 
company  at  your  ease  without  the  hurry  and  rush  of 
the  summer  crowd.  He  would  have  been  very  glad, 
thankful,  indeed,  if  he  could  have  fallen  in  love.  How 
absurd  to  think  that  any  silly  boy  can  do  it,  to  whom  it 
is  probably  nothing  but  a  disadvantage  and  the  silliest 
of  pastimes,  and  that  he,  a  reasonable  man  with  a  good 
income,  and  arrived  at  a  time  of  life  when  it  is  becom- 
ing and  rational  to  marry,  could  not  do  it,  let  him  try 
as  he  would  !  There  was  something  ludicrous  in  it, 
when  you  came  to  think,  as  well  as  something  very  de- 
pressing. Mothers  who  wanted  a  good  position  for 
their  daughters  divined  him,  and  many  of  them  were 
exceedingly  civil  to  John,  this  man  in  search  of  a  wife  ; 
and  many  of  the  young  ladies  themselves  divined  him, 
and  with  the  half  indignation,  half  mockery,  appropri- 
ate to  the  situation,  were  some  of  them  not  unaverse  to 
profit  by  it,  and  accordingly  turned  to  him  their  worst 


THE  if  A  RUT  A  <  •  !.  IXOR.  903 

side  in  the  self-consciousness  produced  by  that  knowl- 
edge. And  thus  the  second  year  turned  round  towards 
the  wane,  and  John  was  farther  from  success  than  ever. 
He  said  to  himself  then  that  it  was  clear  he  was  not 
a  marrying  man.  He  liked  the  society  of  ladies  well 
enough,  but  not  in  that  way.  He  was  not  made  for  fall- 
ing in  love.  He  might  very  well,  he  was  aware,  have  dis- 
pensed with  the  tradition,  and  found  an  excellent  wife, 
who  would  not  at  all  have  insisted  upon  it  from  her 
side.  But  he  had  his  prejudices,  and  could  not  do 
this.  Love  he  insisted  upon,  and  love  would  not  come. 
Accordingly,  when  the  second  season  was  orer  he  gave 
up  both  the  quest  and  the  idea,  and  resolved  to  think 
of  marrying  no  more,  which  was  a  sensible  relief  to  him. 
For  indeed  he  was  exceedingly  comfortable  as  he  was  ; 
his  chambers  were  excellent,  and  he  did  not  think  that 
any  street  or  square  in  Belgravia  would  have  reconciled 
him  to  giving  up  the  Temple.  He  had  excellent  ser- 
vants, a  man  and  his  wife,  who  took  the  greatest  care 
of  him.  He  had  settled  into  a  life  which  was  arranged 
as  he  liked,  with  much  freedom,  and  yet  an  agreeable 
routine  which  John  was  too  wise  to  despise.  He  relin- 
quished the  idea  of  marrying  then  and  there.  To  be 
sure  there  is  never  any  prophesying  what  may  happen. 
A  little  laughing  gipsy  of  a  girl  may  banish  such  a  res- 
olution out  of  a  man's  mind  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
at  any  moment.  But  short  of  such  accidents  as  that, 
and  he  smiled  at  the  idea  of  anything  of  the  kind,  he 
quite  made  up  his  mind  on  this  point  with  a  great  sen- 
sation of  relief. 

It  is  curious  how  determined  the  mind  of  the  English 
public  at  least  is  oil  this  subject — that  the  man  or  wom- 
an who  does  not  many  (especially  the  woman,  by-the- 
bye)  has  an  unhappy  life,  and  that  a  story  which  does 
not  end  in  a  wedding  is  no  story  at  all,  or  at  least  ends 
badly,  as  people  say.  It  happened  to  myself  on  one 
occasion  to  put  together  in  a  book  the  story  of  some 
friends  of  mine,  in  which  this  was  the  case.  They 
were  young,  they  were  hopeful,  they  had  all  life  before 
them,  but  they  did  not  marry.  And  when  the  last 


THE    MAURI  ACE   OP   ELINOR. 

chapter  came  to  the  consciousness  of  the  publisher  he 
si  ruck,  with  the  courage  of  a  true  Briton,  not  ashamed 
of  his  principles,  and  refused  to  pay.  He  said  it  was 
no  story  at  all — so  beautiful  is  marriage  in  the  eyes  of 
our  countrymen.  -  I  hope,  however,  that  nobody  will 
think  any  harm  of  John  Tatham  because  he  concluded, 
after  considerable  and  patient  trial,  that  he  was  not  a 
marrying  man.  There  is  no  harm  in  -that.  A  great 
number  of  those  Catholic  priests  whom  it  was  the  habit 
in  my  youth  to  commiserate  deeply,  as  if  they  were 
vowed  to  the  worst  martyrdom,  live  very  happy  lives  in 
their  celibacy  and  prefer  it,  as  John  Tatham  did.  It 
will  be  apparent  to  the  reader  that  he  really  preferred 
it  to  Elinor,  while  Elinor  was  in  his  power.  And 
though  afterwards  it  gave  a  comfort  and  grace  to  his  life 
to  think  that  it,  was  his  faithful  but  subdued  love  for 
Elinor  which  made  him  a  bachelor  all  his  days,  I  am 
by  no  means  certain  that  this  was  true.  Perhaps  he 
never  would  have  made  up  his  mind  had  she  remained 
always  within  his  reach.  Certain  it  is  that  he  was  re- 
lieved when  he  found  that  to  give  up  the  idea  of  mar- 
riage wras  the  best  thing  for  him.  He  adopted  the 
conclusion  with  pleasure.  His  next  brother  had  al- 
ready married,  though  he  was  younger  than  John  ; 
but  then  he  was  a  clergyman,  which  is  a  profession 
naturally  tending  to  that  sort  of  thing.  There  was, 
however,  no  kind  of  necessity  laid  upon  him  to  provide 
for  the  continuance  of  the  race.  And  he  was  a  happy 
man. 

By  what  sequence  of  ideas  it  was  that  he  considered 
himself  justified,  having  come  to  this  conclusion,  in  im- 
mediately paying  his  long-promised  visit  to  Lakeside, 
is  a  question  which  I  need  not  enter  into,  and  indeed  do 
not  feel  entirely  able  to  cope  with.  It  suited  him,  per- 
haps, as  he  had  been  so  long  a  time  in  Switzerland  last 
year  :  and  he  had  an  invitation  -to  the  far  north  for  the 
grouse,  which  he  thought  it  would  be  pleasant  to 
accept.  Going  to  Scotland  or  coming  from  it,  Water- 
d.'ilo  of  coiirse  lies  full  in  the  way.  He  took  it  last  on 
his  way  home,  which  was  more  convenient,  and  arrived 


THE  MARRTAGE  OF  ELINOR.  296 

there  in  the  lattor  part  of  September,  when  the  hills 
were  golden  with  the  yellow  bracken.  The  Cumber- 
land hills  are  a  little  cold,  in  my  opinion,  without  the 
heather,  which  clothes  with  such  a  flush  of  life  and 
brightness  our  hills  in  the  north.  The  greenness  is 
chilly  in  the  frequent  rain  ;  one  feels  how  sodden  and 
slippery  it  is — a  moisture  which  does  not  belong  to  the 
heather :  but  when  the  brackens  have  all  turned,  and 
the  slopes  reflect  themselves  in  the  tranquil  water  like 
hills  of  gold,  then  the  landscape  reaches  its  perfect 
point.  Lakeside  was  a  white  house  standing  out  on  a 
small  projection  at  the  head  of  the  lake,  commanding 
the  group  of  hills  above  and  part  of  the  winding  body 
of  water  below,  in  which  all  these  golden  reflections 
lay.  A  little  steamer  passed  across  the  reflected  glory, 
and  came  to  a  stop  not  a  hundred  yards  from  the  gate 
of  the  house.  It  was  a  scene  as  unlike  as  could  be  con- 
ceived to  the  Cottage  at  Windyhill :  the  trees  were  all 
glorious  in  colour ;  yellow  birches  like  trees  made  of 
light,  oaks  all  red  and  fiery,  chestnuts  and  elms  and 
beeches  in  a  hundred  hues.  The  house  was  white,  with 
a  sort  of  broad  verandah  round,  supported  on  pillars, 
furnishing  a  sheltered  walk  below  and  a  broad  balcony 
above,  which  gave  it  a  character  of  more  importance 
than  perhaps  its  real  size  warranted.  When  John  ap- 
proached there  ran  out  to  meet  him  into  the  wide 
gravel  drive  before  the  door  a  little  figure  upon  two 
sturdy  legs,  calling  out,  in  inarticulate  shoutings,  some- 
thing that  sounded  a  little  like  his  own  name.  It  was, 
'•  'tie  John  !  'tie  John  !  "  made  into  a  sort  of  song  by 
the  baby,  nearly  two  years  old,  and  "  very  forward,"  as 
eveiybody  assured  the  stranger,  for  his  age.  Uncle 
John !  his  place  was  thus  determined  at  once  by 
that  little  potentate  and  master  of  the  house.  Behind 
the  child  came  Elinor,  no  longer  pale  and  languid  as  he 
had  seen  her  last,  but  matured  into  vigorous  beauty, 
bright-eyed,  a  little  sober,  as  might  have  become  ma- 
turer  years  than  hers.  Perhaps  there  was  something 
in  the  style  of  her  dress  that  favoured  the  idea,  not  of 
age  indeed,  but  of  matronly  years,  and  beyond  those 


296  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

which  Elinor  counted.  She  was  dressed  in  black,  of 
the  simplest,  description,  not  of  distinctive  character 
like  a  wid'ow's,  yet  something  like  what  an  ideal  widow 
beyond  fashion  or  conventionalities  of  woe  might  wear. 
It  seemed  to  give  John  the  key-note  of  the  character 
she  had  assumed  in  this  new  sphere. 

Mrs.  Dennistoun,  who  had  not  changed  in  the  least, 
stood  in  the  open  door.  They  gave  him  a  welcome 
such  as  John  had  not  had,  he  said  to  himself,  since  he 
had  seen  them  before.  They  were  unfeignedly  glad  to 
see  him,  not  wounded  (which,  to  think  of  afterwards, 
wounded  him  a  little)  that  he  had  not  come  sooner,  but 
delighted  that  he  was  here  now.  Even  when  he  went 
home  it  was  not  usual  to  John  to  be  met  at  the  door  in 
this  way  by  all  his  belongings.  His  sister  might  come 
running  down  the  stairs  when  she  heard  the  dog-cart 
draw  up,  but  that  was  all.  And  Mary's  eagerness  to 
see  him  was  generally  tempered  by  the  advice  she  had 
to  give,  to  say  that  or  not  to  say  this,  because  of  papa. 
But  in  the  present  case  it  was  the  sight  of  himself 
which  was  delightful  to  all,  and,  above  all,  though  the 
child  could  have  no  reason  for  it,  to  the  little  shouting- 
excited  boy.  "  'Tie  John  !  'tie  John  !  "  What  was 
Uncle  John  to  him  ?  yet  his  little  voice  filled  the  room 
with  shouts  of  joy. 

"What  does  he  know  about  me,  the  little  beggar, 
that  he  makes  such  a  noise  in  my  honour?  "  said  John, 
touched  in  spite  of  himself.  "But  I  suppose  anything 
is  good  enough  for  a  cry  at  that  age." 

"Come,"  said  Elinor,  '-you  are  not  to  be  contempt- 
uous of  my  boy  any  longer.  You  called  him  it  when  he 
was  a  baby." 

"And  what  is  he  now?"  said  John,  whose  heart 
was  affected  by  strange  emotions,  he,  the  man  who 
had  just  tlecided  (with  relief)  that  he  was  not  a 
marrying  man.  There  came  over  him  a  curious  wave 
of  sensation  which  he  had  no  right  to.  If  he  had  had  a 
right  to  it,  if  he  had  been  coining  home  to  those  who 
belonged  to  him,  not  distantly  in  the  way  of  cousinship, 
but  by  a  dearer  right,  what  sensations  his  would  have 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR.  297 


been!  But  sirhig  at  the  corner  of  the  fire  (which  is 
necessary  in  Waterdale  in  the  eud  of  September)  a 
little  in  the  shadow,  his  face  was  not  very  clearly  per- 
ceptible :  thoagh  indeed  had  it  been  so  the  ladies  would 
have  thought  nothing  but  that  John's  kind  heart  was 
touched,  as  was  so  natural,  by  this  sight. 

"  What  is  he  now  ?  Your  nephew  !  Tell  Uncle  John 
what  you  are  now,"  said  Elinor,  lifting  her  child  on  her 
lap  ;  at  which  the  child  between  the  kisses  which  were 
his  encouragement  and  reward  produced,  in  a  large 
infant  voice,  very  treble,  yet  simulating  hers,  the  state- 
ment, "Mamma's  bhoy." 

%;  Now,  Elinor,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  "he  has  played 
his  part  beautifully  ;  he  has  done  everything  you  taught 
him.  He  has  told  you  who  he  is  and  who  Uncle 
John  is.  Let  him  go  to  his  nursery  now." 

"  Come  up-stairs,  Pippo.  Mother  will  carrj'  her  boy," 
said  Elinor.  "  They  don't  want  us  any  more,  these  old 
people.  Say  good-night  to  Uncle  John,  and  come  to 
bed." 

"  Dood-night,  'tie  John,"  said  the  child  ;  which,  how- 
ever, was  not  enough,  for  he  tilted  himself  out  of  his 
mother's  arms  and  put  his  rosy  face  and  open  mouth, 
sweet  but  damp,  upon  John's  face.  This  kiss  was  one 
of  the  child's  accomplishments.  He  himself  was  aware 
that  he  had  been  good,  and  behaved  himself  in  every 
way  as  a  child  should  do,  as  he  was  carried  off  crowing 
and  jabbering  in  his  mother's  arms.  He  had  formed  a 
sort  of  little  human  bridge  between  them  when  he 
made  that  dive  from  Elinor's  arms  upon  John's  fact. 
Ah,  heaven  !  if  it  had  been  the  other  way,  if  the  child 
and  the  mother  had  both  been  his  ! 

"  He  has  grown  up  very  sweet.  You  may  think  we 
are  foolish,  John  ;  but  you  can't  imagine  what  a  delight 
that  child  is  Hasn't  he  grown  up  sweet  '?" 

"  If  you  call  that  grown  up  !  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  he  is  only  a  baby  still  ;  but  so  for- 
ward for  his  age,  such  a  little  man,  taking  care  of  his 
mother  before  he  is  two  years  old  !  " 

"  What  did  I  hear  her  call  him  ?"  John  asked,  and  it 


29S  THE  MATtlUAnE   OF   K 

seemed  to  Mrs.  Dennistouu  that  there  WHS  something 
severe  in  the  sound  of  his  voice. 

"He  had  to  be  Philip.  It  is  a  pretty  name,  though 
Ave  may  have  reason  to  mourn  the  day — and  belongs  to 
his  family.  We  must  not  forget  that  he  belongs  to  a 
known  family,  however  he  may  have  suffered  by  it." 

"  Then  you  intend  the  child  to  know  about  his 
family  ?  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  John,  though  his 
voice  perhaps  was  not  so  sweet  as  his  words. 

"  Oh,  John,  that  is  quite  another  thing !  to  know 
about  his  family — at  two!  He  has  his  mother — and 
me  to  take  care  of  them  both,  and  what  does  he  want 
more  ?  " 

"But  he  will  not  always  be  two,"  said  John,  the  first 
moment  almost  of  his  arrival,  before  he  had  seen  the 
house,  or  said  a  word  about  the  lake,  or  anything. 
She  was  so  disappointed  and  cast  down  that  she  made" 
him  no  reply. 

"I  am  a  wretched  croaker,"  he  said,  after  a  moment, 
"I  know.  I  ought  after  all  this  time  to  try  to  make 
myself  more  agreeable;  but  you  must  pardon  me  if 
this  was  the  first  thing  that  came  into  my  mind.  Eli- 
nor is  looking  a  great  deal  better  than  when  I  saw  her 
last" 

"Isn't  she  !  another  creature.  I  don't  say  that  I  am 
satisfied,  John.  Who  would  be  satisfied  in  such  a  po- 
sition of  affairs  ?  but  while  the  child  is  so  very  young 
nothing  matters  very  much.  And  she  is  quite  happy. 
I  do  think  she  is  quite  happy.  And  so  well — this  coun- 
try suits  them  both  perfectly.  Though  there  is  a  good 
deal  of  rain,  they  are  both  out  every  day.  And  little 
Pippo  thrives,  as  you  see,  like  a  flower." 

"  That  is  a  very  fantastic  name  to  give  the  child." 

"  How  critical  you  are,  John  !  perhaps  it  is,  but  what 
does  it  matter  at  his  age?  any  name  does  for  a 'baby. 
Why,  you  yourself,  as  grave  as  you  are  now " 

'•'  Don't,  aunt,"  said  John.  "  It  is  a  grave  matter 
enough  as  it  appears  to  me." 

"Not  for  the  present ;  not  for  the  pi'esent,  John." 

"  Perhaps  not  for  the  present :  if  you  prefer  to  put 


THE  MARRIAGE   OP  ELINOR.  299 

off  all  the  difficulties  till  they  grow  up  and  crush  you. 
Have  there  been  any  overtures,  all  this  time,  from — the 
other  side  ?  " 

"  Dear  John,  don't  overwhelm  me  all  in  a  moment, 
in  the  first  pleasure  of  seeing  you,  both  with  the 
troubles  that  are  behind  and  the  troubles  that  are  in 
front  of  us,"  the  poor  lady  said. 


CHAPTEE  XXXI. 

THE  weather  was  fi«e,  which  was  by  no  means  always 
a  certainty  at  Waterdale,  and  Elinor  had  become  a 
great  pedestrian,  and  was  ready  to  accompany  John  in 
his  walks,  which  were  long  and  varied.  It  was  rather  a 
curious  test  to  which  to  subject  himself  after  the  long 
time  he  had  been  away,  and  the  other  tests  through 
which  he  had  gone.  Never  had  he  been  so  entirely  the 
companion  of  Elinor,  never  before  had  they  spent  so 
many  hours  together  without  other  society.  At  Windy- 
hill,  indeed,  their  interviews  had  been  quite  unre- 
strained, but  then  Elinor  had  many  friends  and  interests 
in  the  parish  and  outside  of  it,  visits  to  pay  and  duties 
to  perform.  Now  she  had  her  child,  which  occupied 
her  mornings  and  evenings,  but  left  her  free  for  hours 
of  rambling  among  the  hills,  for  long  walks,  from  which 
she  came  back  blooming  with  the  fresh  air  and  breezes 
which  had  blown  her  about,  ruffling  her  hair,  and  stir- 
ring up  her  spirits  and  thoughts.  Sometimes  when 
there  has  been  heavy  and  premature  suffering  there 
occurs  thus  in  the  young  another  spring-time,  an  almost 
childhood  of  natural,  it  ma}7  be  said  superficial  pleasure 
— the  power  of  being  amused,  and  of  enjoying  every 
simple  satisfaction  without  any  arri^re  pemce  .like  a 
child.  She  had  recovered  her  strength  and  vigour  in 
the  mountain  air — and  in  that  freedom  of  being  un- 
known, with  no  look  ever  directed  to  her  which  re- 
minded her  of  the  past,  no  question  which  brought 


"00  777ff  MARRIAGE  Of  ELINOR. 

back  her  troubles,  had  blossomed  out  into  that  fine 
youthful  maturity  of  twenty-six,  which  has  already  an 
advantage  over  the  earlier  girlhood,  the  perfection  of 
the  woman  grown.  Elinor  had  thought  of  many  things 
and  understood  many  things,  which  she  had  still  re- 
garded with  the  high  assumptions  of  ignorance  three 
or  four  years  ago.  And  poor  John,  who  had  tried  so 
hard  to  find  himself  a  mate  that  suited  him,  who  had 
studied  so  many  girls  more  beautiful,  more  accomplished 
than  Elinor,  in  the  hope  of  goading  himself,  so  to 
speak,  into  love,  and  had  not  succeeded — and  who 
had  felt  so  strongly  that  another  man's  wife  must  not 
occupy  so  much  of  his  thoughts,  nor  another  man's 
child  give  him  an  unwilling  pleasure  which  was  almost 
fatherly — poor  John  felt  himself  placed  in  a  position 
more  trying  than  any  he  had  known  before,  more 
difficult  to  steer  his  way  'through.  He  had  never  had 
so  much  of  her  company,  and  she  did  not  conceal  the 
pleasure  it  was  to  her  to  have  some  one  to  wralk  with, 
to  talk  with,  who  understood  what  she  said  and  what 
she  did  not  say,  and  was  in  that  unpurchasable  sym- 
pathy with  herself  which  is  not  to  be  got  by  beauty, 
or  by  will,  or  even  by  love  itself,  but  comes  by  nature. 
Elinor  felt  this  with  simple  pleasure.  Without  any  com- 
plicating suspicion,  she  said,  "What  a  brother  John  is  ! 
I  always  felt  him  so,  but  now  more  than  ever."  "You 
have  been,  so  to  speak,  brought  up  together,"  said  Mrs. 
Deiinistoun,  whose  mind  was  by  no  means  so  easy  on 
the  subject.  "That  is  the  reason,  I  suppose,"  said 
Elinor,  with  happy  looks. 

But  poor  John  said  nothing  of  this  kind.  What  he 
felt  was  that  lie  might  have  spared  himself  the  trouble 
of  all  those  researches  of4iis  ;  that  to  roam  about  look- 
ing for  a  young  lady  whom  he  might — not  devour,  but 
learn  to  love,  was  pains  as  unnecessary  as  ever  man 
took.  He  still  hugged  himself,  however,  over  the 
thought  that  in  no  circumstances  would  he  have  boon  a 
marrying  man  ;  that  if  Elinor  had  been  free  he  would 
have  found  plenty  of  reasons  why  they  should  remain 
on  their  present  terms  and  go  no  farther.  As  it  was 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR. 

clear  that  they  must  remain  on  their  present  terms, 
and  could  go  no  farther,  it  was  certainly  better  that  he 
should  cherish  that  thought. 

And  curiously  enough,  though  they  heard  so  little  from 
the  outside  world,  they  had  heard  just  so  much  as  this, 
that  John's  assiduities  to  the  Miss  Gaythornes  (which 
the  reader  may  remember  was  the  first  of  all  his 
attempts,  and  quite  antiquated  in  his  recollection)  had 
occasioned  remarks,  and  he  had  not  been  many  even- 
ings at  Lakeside  before  he  was  questioned  on  the  sub- 
ject. Had  it  been  true,  or  had  he  changed  his  mind 

or  had  the  lady ?  It  vexed  him  that  there  was 

not  the  least  little  opposition  or  despite  in  their  tones, 
such  as  a  man's  female  friends  often  show  towards 
the  objects  of  his  admiration,  not  fi-orn  any  feeling  on 
their  own  part,  except  that  most  natural  one,  which  is 
surprised  ami  almost  hurt  to  find  that,  '"  having  known 
me,  he  could  decline  " — a  feeling  which,  in  its  original 
expression,  was  not  a  woman's  sentiment,  but  a  man's, 
and  therefore  is,  I  suppose,  common  to  both  sides.  But 
the  ladies  at  Lakeside  did  not  even  betray  this  feeling. 
They  desired  to  know  if  there  had  been  anything  in  it 
— with  smiles,  it  is  true  ;  but  Mrs.  Dennistouu  at  the 
time  expressed  her  regret  warmly. 

"  We  were  in  great  hopes  something  would  come  of 
it,  John.  Elinor  has  met  the  Gaythornes,  and  thought 
them  very  nice  ;  and  if  there  is  a  thing  in  the  world 
that  would  give  me  pleasure,  it  would  be  to  see  you 
with  a  nice  wife,  John." 

"I  am  sure  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  aunt  ;  but 
there  really  was  nothing  in  it.  That  is,  I  was  seized 
with  various  impulses  on  the  subject,  and  rather  agreed 
with  you  :  but  I  never  mentioned  the  matter  to  any  of 
the  Miss  Gaythornes.  They  are  charming  girls,  and  I 
don't  suppose  would  have  looked  at  me.  At  the  same 
time,  I  did  not  feel  it  possible  to  imagine  myself  in  love 
with  any  of  them.  That's  quite  a  long  time  since,"  he 
added  with  a  laugh. 

"Then  there  have  been  others  since  then?  Let  us 
put  him  in  the  confessional,  mother,"  cried  Elinor  with 


302  THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR. 

a  laugh.  "  He  ought  not  to  have  any  secrets  of  that  cle. 
scription  from  you  and  me." 

"  Oh,  yes,  there  have  been  others  since,"  said  John. 
"  To  tell  the  truth,  I  have  walked  round  a  great  many 
nice  girls  asking  myself  whether  I  shouldn't  find  it 
very  delightful  to  have  one  of  them  belonging  to  me. 
I  wasn't  worthy  the  least  attractive  of  them  all,  I 
quite  knew  ;  but  still  I  am  about  the  same  as  other 
men.  However,  as  I've  said,  I  never  mentioned  the 
matter  to  any  of  them." 

"  Never  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  feeling  a  hesitation 
in  his  tone. 

He  laughed  a  little,  shamefaced  :  "  Well,  if  you  like, 
I  will  say  hardly  ever,"  he  said.  "  There  was  one  that 
might,  perhaps,  have  taken  pity  upon  me — but  fortu- 
nately an  old  lover  of  hers,  who  was  much  more  enter- 
prising, turned  up  before  anything  decisive  had  been 
said." 

"Fortunately,  John?" 

"  Well,  yes,  I  thought  so.  Yon  seel  am  not  a  marry- 
ing man.  I  tried  to  screw  myself  up  to  the  point,  but 
it  was  altogether,  I  am  afraid,  as  a  matter  of  principle. 
I  thought  it  would  be  a  good  thing,  perhaps,  to  have  a 
wife." 

"That  was  a  very  coldblooded  idea.  No  wonder 
you — it  never  came  to  anything.  That  is  not  the  way 
to  go  about  it,"  said  Elinor  with  the  ringing  laugh  of  a 
child. 

And  yet  her  way  of  going  about  it  had  been  far  from 
a  success.  How  curious  that  she  did  not  remember  that ! 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  am  quite  aware  that  I  did  not  go 
about  it  in  the  right  way,  but  then  that  was  the  only 
way  in  which  it  presented  itself  to  me  ;  and  "when  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  at  last  that  it  was  a  failure,  I  confess 
it  was  with  a  certain  sense  of  relief.  I  suppose  I  was 
born  to  live  and  die  an  old  bachelor." 

"  Do  not  be  so  sure  of  that,"  said  Elinor.  "  Some  day 
or  other,  in  the  most  unlooked-for  moment,  the  fairy 
princess  will  bound  upon  the  scene,  and  the  old  bache- 
lor will  be  lost." 


TIL'-:  V Ami! AGE   OF  F.LISoR.  303 

"  We'll  wait  quite  contentedly  for  that  clay— which  I 
don't  believe  in,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Dennistoun  did  not  take  any  part  in  the  later 
portion  of  this  discussion  ;  her  smile  was  feeble  at  the 
places  where  Elinor  laughed.  She  said  seriously  after 
this  fireside  conference,  when  he  got  up  to  prepare  for 
dinner,  putting  her  hand  tenderly  on  his  shoulder,  '•  I 
wish  you  had  found  some  one  you  could  have  loved, 
John." 

"  So  did  I — for  a  time,"  he  said,  lightly.  "  But  you 
see,  it  was  not  to  be." 

She  shook  her  head,  standing  against  the  firelight  in 
the  dark  room,  so  that  he  could  not  see  her  face.  ''I 
wish,"  she  said,  "  I  wish — that  I  saw  you  with  a  nice 
wife,  John." 

"You  might  wish — to  see  me  on  the  woolsack,  aunt." 

"  Well — -and  it  might  come  to  pass.  I  shall  see  you 
high  up — if  I  live  long  enough;  but  I  wish  I  was  as 
sure  of  the  other,  John." 

"Well,"  he  S'dd  with  a  laugh,  "I  did  my  best ;  but 
there  is  no  use  in  struggling  against  fate." 

indeed  !  how  very,  very  little  use  there  was. 
He  had  kept  away  from  them  for  nearly  two  years" ; 
while  he  had  done  his  best  in  the  meantime  to  get  a 
permanent  tenant  for  his  heart  which  should  prevent 
any  wandering  tendencies.  But  he  had  not  succeeded  ; 
and  now  if  ever  a  man  could  be  put  in  circumstances  of 
danger  it  was  he.  If  he  did  not  appear  in  time  for 
their  walk  Elinor  would  call  him.  "  Aren't  you  com- 
ing, John  ?  ''  And  she  overflowed  in  talk  to  him  of 
everything — excepting  always  of  that  one  dark  passage 
in  her  life  of  which  she  never  breathed  a  word.  She 
asked  him  about  his  work,  and  about  his  prospects,  in 
sisting  upon  having  everything  explained  to  her — even 
politics,  to  which  he  had  a  tendency,  not  without  ideas 
of  their  use  in  reaching  the  higher  ranks  of  his  pro- 
fession. Elinor  entered  into  all  with  zest  and  almost 
enthusiasm.  She  wrapped  him  up  in  her  sympathy 
and  interest.  There  was  nothing  he  did  that  she  did 
not  wish  to  know  about,  did  not  desire  to  have  a  part 


THE   MAUllIAUE   OF  ELINOR. 

in.  A  sister  in  this  respect  is,  as  everybody  knows, 
often  more  full  of  enthusiasm  than  a  wife,  and  Elinor, 
who  was  vacant,  of  all  concerns  of  her  own  (except  the 
baby)  was  delighted  to  take  up  these  subjects  of  excite- 
ment, and  follow  John  through  them,  hastening  after 
him  on  every  line  of  indication  or  suggestion  which  he 
gave — nay,  often  with  her  lively  intelligence  hastening 
before  him,  making  incursions  into  undiscovered  coun- 
tries of  which  he  had  not  yet  perceived  the  importance. 
They  walked  over  all  the  country,  into  woods  which 
were  a  little  damp,  and  up  hill-sides  where  the  scram- 
ble was  often  difficult  enough,  and  along  the  side  of  the 
lake — or,  for  a  variety,  went  rowing  across  to  the  other 
side,  or  far  down  the  gleaming  water,  out  of  sight, 
round  the  wooded  corner  which,  with  all  its  autumnal 
colours,  blazed  like  a  brilliant  sentinel  into  the  nil- 
above  and  the  water  below.  Mrs.  Dennistoun  watched 
them,  sometimes  with  a  little  trouble  on  her  face.  She 
would  not  say  a  word  to  throw  suspicions  or  doubts  be- 
tween them.  She  would  not  awaken  in  Elinor's  mind 
the  thought  that  any  such  possibilities  as  arise  between 
two  young'  people  free  of  all  bonds  could  be  imagined 
as  affecting  her  and  any  man  such  as  her  cousin  John. 
Poor  John  !  if  he  must  be  the  victim,  the  victim  he 
must  be.  Elinor  could  not  be  disturbed  that  he  might 
go  free.  And  indeed,  what  good  would  it  have  done  to 
disturb  Elinor?  It  would  but  have  brought  conscious- 
ness, embarrassment,  and  a  sense  of  danger  where  no 
such  sense  was.  She  was  trebly  protected,  and  without 
a  thought  of  anything  but  the  calm  yet  close  relations 

that  had  existed  so  long.     He but  he  could  take 

care  of  himself,  Mrs.  Dennistoun  reflected  in  despair  ; 
he  must  take  care  of  himself.  He  was  a  man  and  must 
understand  what  his  own  risks  and  perils  were. 

"And  do  you  think  this  plan  is  a  success?"  John 
asked  her  one  day  as  they  were  rowing  homeward  up 
the  lake.  The  time  of  his  visit  was  drawing  to  a  close  ; 
indeed  it  had  drawn  to  a  close  several  times,  and  been 
lengthened  very  unadvisedly,  yet  very  irresistibly  as  he 
felt. 


THE  XAR1HAVE   OF  ELIXOR. 

Her  face  grew  graver  than  usual,  as  with  a  sudden 
recollection  of  that  shadow  upon  her  life  which  Elinor 
so  often  seemed  to  have  forgotten.  "As  much  of  a 
success,"  she  said,  "as  anything  of  the  kind  is  likely 
to  be.'1 

"  It  suits  you  better  than  Windyhill?  " 

"  Only  in  being  more  out  of  the  world.  It  is  partially 
out  of  the  world  for  a  great  part  of  the  year  ;  but  I  sup- 
pose no  place  is  so  wholly.  It  seems  impossible  to  keep 
from  making  acquaintances." 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  I  have  noticed.  You  know 
people  here  already." 

"  How  can  we  keep  from  knowing  people  ?  Mamma 
says  it  is  the  same  thing  everywhere.  If  we  lived  up  in 
that  little  house  which  they  say  is  the  highest  in  Eng- 
land— at  the  head  of  the  pass — we  should  meet  people 
I  suppose  even  there." 

"  Most  likely,"  he  replied  ;  "  but  the  same  difficulties 
can  hardly  arise." 

"  You  mean  we  shall  not  know  people  so  well  as  at — 
at  home,  and  will  not  be  compelled  to  give  an  account 
of  ourselves  whatever  we  do?  Heaven  knows!  There 
is  a  vicarage  here,  and  there  is  a  squire's  house  :  and 
there  are  two  or  three  people  besides  who  already  begin 
to  inquire  if  we  are  related  to  So-and-So,  if  we  are  the 
Scotch  Dennistouns,  or  the  Irish  Comptons,  or  I  don't 
know  what  ;  and  whether  we  are  going  to  Penrith  or 
any  other  capital  city  for  the  winter."  Elinor  ended 
with  a  laugh. 

"  So  soon  ?  ''  John  said. 

"So  soon— very  much  sooner,  the  first  year:  with 
mamma  so  friendly  as  she  is  and  with  me  so  silly,  un- 
able to  keep  myself  from  smiling  at  anybody  who  smiles 
at  me  !  " 

"  Poor  Elinor  !  " 

"  Oh,  you  may  laugh  ;  but  it  is  a  real  disadvantage. 
I  am  sure  there  was  not  very  much  smile  in  me  when 
we  came ;  and  yet,  notwithstanding,  the  first  pleasant 
look  is  enough  for  me,  I  cannot  but  respond  ;  and  I 
shall  always  be  so,  I  suppose/'  she  said,  with  a  sigh. 
20 


306  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

"  I  hope  so,  Elinor.  It  would  be  an  evil  day  for  all 
of  us  if  you  did  not  respond." 

"  For  bow  many,  John  ?  For  my  mother  and — ah, 
you  are  so  good,  more  like  my  brother  than  my  cousin 
— for  you,  perhaps,  a  little  ;  but  what  is  it  to  anybody 
else  in  the  world  whether  I  smile  or  sigh  ?  It  does  not 
matter,  however,"  she  said,  flinging  back  her  head  ; 
"  there  it  is,  and  I  can't  help  it.  If  you  smile  at  me  I 
must  smile  back  again — and  so  we  make  friends  ;  and 
already  I  get  a  great  deal  of  advice  about  little  Pippo. 
If  we  live  here  till  he  grows  up,  the  same  thing  will 
happen  as  at  the  Cottage.  We  will  require  to  account 
to  everybody  for  what  we  do  with  him — for  the  school 
he  goes  to,  and  all  he  does  ;  to  explain  why  he  has 
one  kind  of  training  or  another  ;  and,  in  short,  all  that 
I  ran  away  from  :  the  world  wherever  one  goes  seems 
to  be  so  much  the  same." 

"  The  world  is  very  much  the  same  everywhere ;  and 
you  cannot  get  out  of  it  were  you  to  take  refuge  in  a 
cave  on  the  hill.  The  best  thing  is  generally  to  let  it 
know  all  that  can  be  known,  and  so  save  the  multitude 
of  guesses  it  always  makes." 

Elinor  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  with  her  lips 
pressed  tightly  together,  and  a  light  in  her  eyes  ;  then 
she  looked  away  across  the  water  to  the  golden  hills, 
and  said  nothing  ;  but  there  was  a  great  deal  in  that 
look  of  eager  contradiction,  yet  forced  agreement,  of  de- 
termination above  all,  with  which  right  and  wrong  had 
nothing  to  do. 

"  Elinor,"  he  said,  "  do  you  mean  that  child  to  gixnv 
up  here  between  your  mother  and  you — in  ignorance 
of  all  that  there  is  in  the  world  besides  you  two  ?  " 

"  That  child  !  "  she  cried.  "John,  I  think  you  dislike 
my  boy  ;  for,  of  course,  it  is  Pippo  you  mean." 

"I  wish  you  would  not  call  him  by  that  absurd 
name." 

"You  are  hard  to  please,"  she  said,  with  an  angry 
laugh.  "  I  think  it  is  a  very  sweet  little  name." 

"The  child  will  not  always  be  a  baby,"  said  John. 

"Oh,  no  :  I  suppose  if  we  all  live   long  enough  he 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  307 

will  some  time  be  a — possibly  disagreeable  man,  and 
punish  us  well  for  all  the  care  we  have  spent  upon 
him,"  Elinor  said. 

"I  don't  want  to  make  you  angry,  Elinor " 

"  No,  I  don't  suppose  you  do.  You  have  been  very 
nice  to  me,  John.  You  have  neither  scolded  me  nor 
given  me  good  advice.  I  never  expected  you  would 
have  been  so  forbearing.  But  I  have  always  felt  you 
must  mean  to  give  me  a  good  knock  at  the  end." 

"You  do  me  great  injustice,"  he  said,  much  wounded. 
"You  know  that  I  think  only  of  what  is  best  for  you — 
and  the  child." 

They  wei%e  approaching  the  shore,  and  Mrs.  Dennis- 
toun's  white  cap  was  visible  in  the  waning  light,  looking 
out  for  them  from  the  door.  Elinor  said  hastily, 
"  And  the  child  ?  I  don't  think  that  you  care  much 
for  the  child." 

"  There  you  are  mistaken,  Elinor.  I  did  not  per- 
haps at  first  :  but  I  acknowledge  that  a  little  thing  like 
that  does  somehow  creep  into  one's  heart." 

Her  face,  which  had  been  gloomy,  brightened  up  as 
if  a  sunbeam  had  suddenly  burst  upon  it.  "  Oh,  bless 
you,  John — Uncle  John  ;  how  good  and  how  kind,  and 
what  a  dear  friend  and  brother  you  are  !  And  I  such 
a  wretch,  ready  to  quarrel  with  those  I  love  best !  But, 
John,  let  me  keep  quiet,  let  me  keep  still,  don't  make 
me  rake  up  the  past.  He  is  such  a  baby,  such  a  baby  ! 
There  cannot  be  any  question  of  telling  him  anything 
for  years  and  years  ! " 

"  I  thought  you  were  lost,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun, 
calling  to  them.  "  I  began  to  think  of  all  kinds  of 
things  that  might  have  happened — of  the  steamboat 
running  into  you,  or  the  boat  going  on  a  rock,  or " 

"  You  need  not  have  had  any  fear  when  I  was  with 
John,"  Elinor  said,  with  a  smile  that  made  him  warm  at 
once,  like  the  sun.  He  knew  vezy  well,  however,  that 
it  was  only  because  he  had  made  that  little  pleasant, 
speech  about  her  boy. 


308  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 


CHAPTER    XXXH. 

THERE  passed  after  tins  a  number  of  years  of  which  I 
can  make  no  record.  The  ladies  remained  at  Lake- 
side, seldom  moving.  When  they  took  a  holiday  now 
and  then,  it  was  more  for  the  sake  of  the  little  commu- 
nity which,  just  as  in  Windyhill,  had  gathered  round 
them,  and  which  inquired,  concerned,  "Are  you  not 
going  to  take  a  little  change  ?  Don't  you  think,  dear 
Mrs.  Denuistoun,  your  daughter  would  be  the  better 
for  a  change  ?  Do  you  really  think  that  a  little  sea 
air  and  variety  wouldn't  bo  good  for  the  boy  ? " 
Forced  by  these  kind  speeches  they  did  go  away 
now  and  then  to  unknown  seaside  places  in  the  north 
when  little  Philip  was  still  a  child,  and  to  quiet  places 
abroad  when  he  grew  a  boy,  and  it  was  thought  a  good 
thing  for  him  to  learn  languages,  and  to  be  taught 
that  there  were  other  countries  in  the  world  besides 
England.  They  were  absent  for  one  whole  winter  in 
France  and  another  in  Germany  with  this  motive, 
that  Philip  should  learn  these  languages,  which  he  did 
tant  bien  que  mal  with  much  assistance  from  his  mother, 
who  taught  herself  everything  that  she  thought  the 
boy  should  know,  and  shared  his  lessons  in  order  to 
push  him  gently  forward.  And  on  the  whole,  he  did 
very  well  in  this  particular  of  language,  showing  much 
aptitude,  though  not  perhaps  much  application.  I 
would  not  assert  that  the  ladies,  with  an  opinion  very 
common  among  women,  and  also  among  youth  in  gen- 
eral, did  not  rather  glory  in  the  thought  that  he  could 
do  almost  anything  he  liked  (which  was  their  opinion, 
and  in  some  degree  while  he  was  very  young,  the 
opinion  of  his  masters),  with  the  appearance  of  doing 
nothing  at  all.  But  on  the  whole,  his  education  was 
the  most  difficult  matter  in  which  they  had  yet  been  en- 
gaged. How  was  he  to  be  educated  ?  His  birth  and 
condition  pointed  to  one  of  the  great  public  schools, 
and  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  who  had  made  many  economics 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  309 

in  that  retirement,  was  quite  able  to  give  the  cbild  what 
they  both  called  the  best  education.  But  how  could 
they  send  him  to  Eton  or  Harrow  ?  A  boy  who  knew 
nothing  about  his  parentage  or  his  family,  a  boy  bear- 
ing a  well-known  name,  who  would  be  subject  to  end- 
less questions  where  he  came  from,  who  he  belonged 
to  ?  a  hundred  things  which  neither  in  Waterdale  nor 
in  their  travels  had  ever  been  asked  of  him.  What  the 
Waterdale  people  thought  on  the  subject,  or  how 
much  they  knew,  I  should  not  like  to  inquire.  There 
are  ways  of  finding  out  everything,  and  people  »who 
possess  family  secrets  are  often  extraordinarily  deceived 
in  respect  to  what  is  known  and  what  is  not  known  of 
those  secrets.  My  own  opinion  is  that  there  is  scarcely 
such  a  thing  as  a  secret  in  the  world.  If  any  moment 
of  great  revolution  comes  in  your  life  you  generally 
find  that  your  neighbours  are  not  much  surprised. 
They  have  known  it,  or  they  have  suspected  it,  all 
along,  and  it  is  well  if  they  have  not  suspected  more 
than  the  truth.  So  it  is  quite  possible  that  these  excel- 
lent people  knew  all  about  Elinor :  but  Elinor  did  not 
think  so,  which  was  the  great  thing. 

However,  there  cannot  be  any  question  that  Philip's 
education  was  a  very  great  difficulty.  John  Tatham, 
who  paid  them  a  visit  soberly  from  time  to  time,  but 
did  not  now  come  as  of  old,  never  indeed  came  as  on 
that  first  occasion  when  he  had  been  so  happy  and  so 
undeceived.  To  be  sure,  as  Philip  grew  up  it  was  of 
course  impossible  for  any  one  to  be  like  that.  From 
the  time  Pippo  was  five  or  six  he  went  everywhere  with 
his  mother,  her  sole  companion  in  general,  and  when 
there  was  a  visitor  always  making  a  third  in  the  party, 
a  third  who  was  really  the  first,  for  he  appealed  to  his 
mother  on  every  occasion,  directed  her  attention  to 
everything.  He  only  learned  with  the  greatest  diffi- 
culty that  it  was  possible  she  should  find  it  necessary 
to  give  her  attention  in  a  greater  degree  to  any  one 
else.  When  she  said,  "  You  know,  Pippo,  I  must  talk 
to  Uncle  John,"  Pippo  opened  his  great  eyes,  "Not 
than  to  me,  mamma  ?  " 


310  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

"Yes,  dearest,  more  than  to  you  for  the  moment: 
for  he  has  come  a  long  way  to  see  us,  and  he  will  soon 
have  to  go  away  again."  When  this  was  first  explained 
to  him,  Pippo  inquired  particularly  when  his  Uncle 
John  was  going  away,  and  was  delighted  to  hear  that 
it  was  to  be  very  soon.  However,  as  he  grew  older 
the  boy  began  to  take  great  pleasure  in  Uncle  John, 
and  hung  upon  his  arm  when  they  went  out  for  their 
walks,  and  instead  of  endeavouring  to  monopolise  his 
mother,  turned  the  tables  upon  her  by  monopolising 
this  the  only  man  who  belonged  to  him,  and  to  whom 
he  turned  with  the  instinct  of  budding  manhood. 
John  too  was  very  willing  to  be  thus  appropriated,  and 
it  came  to  pass  that  now  and  then  Elinor  was  left  out, 
or  left  herself  out  of  the  calculation,  urging  that  the 
walk  they  were  planning  was  too  far  for  her,  or  too 
steep  for  her,  or  too  something,  so  that  the  boy  might 
have  the  enjoyment  of  the  man's  societ}'  all  to  himself. 
This  changed  the  position  in  many  ways,  and  I  am  not 
sure  that  at  first  it  did  not  cost  Elinor  a  little  thus  to 
stand  aside  and  put  herself  out  of  that  first  place 
which  had  always  been  by  all  of  them  accorded  to  her. 
But  if  this  was  so,  it  was  soon  lost  in  the  consideration 
of  how  good  it  was  for  Pippo  to  have  a  man  like  John 
to  talk  to  and  to  influence  him  in  every  way.  A  man 
like  John  !  That  was  the  thing  ;  not  a  common  man, 
not  one  who  might  teach  him  the  baseness,  or  the  fri- 
volity, or  the  falsehood  of  the  world,  but  a  good  man, 
who  was  also  a  distinguished  man,  a  man  of  the  world 
in  the  best  sense,  knowing  life  in  the  best  sense,  and 
able  to  modify  the  boy's  conception  of  what  he  was  to 
find  in  the  world,  as  women  could  never  do. 

"  For  after  all  that  can  be  said,  we  are  not  good  for 
much  on  those  points,  mother,"  Mrs.  Comptou  would 
say. 

"  I  don't  know,  Elinor  ;  I  doubt  whether  I  would  ex- 
change my  own  ideas  for  John's,"  the  elder  lady  re- 
plied. 

"  Ah,  perhaps,  mother  ;  but  for  Pippo  his  experience 
and  his  knowledge  will  do  so  much.  A  boy  should  not 


THE  MAERIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  311 

be  brought  up  entirely  with  women  any  more  than  a 
girl  should  be  with  men." 

"I  have  often  thought,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Dennis- 
toun,  "  if  in  God's  providence  it  had  been  a  girl  instead 
of  a  boy " 

"  Oh  ! "  said  the  younger  mother,  with  a  flush,  "  how 
can  you  speak — how  could  you  think  of  any  possible 
child  but  Pippo  ?  I  would  not  give  him  for  a  score  of 
girls." 

"  And  if  he  had  been  a  girl  you  would  not  have 
changed  him  for  scores  of  boys,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun, 
who  added  after  a  while,  with  a  curious  sense  of  com- 
petition, and  a  determination  to  allow  no  inferiority, 
"You  forget,  Elinor,  that  my  only  child  is  a  girl." 
The  elder  lady  (whom  they  began  to  call  the  old  lady) 
showed  a  great  deal  of  spirit  in  defence  of  her  own. 

But  Philip  was  approaching  fourteen,  and  the  great 
question  had  to  be  decided  now  or  never  ;  where  was 
he  to  be  sent  to  school  ?  It  was  difficult  now  to  send 
him  to  bed  to  get  him  out  of  the  way,  he  who  was  used 
to  be  the  person  of  first  importance  in  the  house — in 
order  that  the  others  might  settle  what  was  to  be  his 
fate.  And  accordingly  the  two  ladies  came  down-stairs 
again  after  the  family  had  separated  in  the  usual  way, 
in  order  to  have  their  consultation  with  their  adviser. 
There  was  now  a  room  in  the  house  furnished  as  a  libra- 
ry in  order  that  Philip  might  have  a  place  in  which  to 
carry  on  his  studies,  and  where  "  the  gentlemen  "  might 
have  their  talks  by  themselves,  when  there  was  any  one 
in  the  house.  And  here  they  found  John  when  they 
stole  in  one  after  the  other,  soft -footed,  that  the  boy 
might  suspect  no  complot.  They  had  their  scheme,  it 
need  not  be  doubted,  and  John  had  his.  He  pronounced 
at  once  for  one  of  the  great  public  schools,  while  the 
ladies  on  their  part  had  heard  of  one  in  the  north, 
an  old  foundation  as  old  as  Eton,  where  there  was  at 
the  moment  a  head  master  who  was  quite  exceptional, 
and  where  boys  were  winning  honours  in  all  directions. 
There  Pippo  would  be  quite  safe.  He  was  not  likely 
to  meet  with  anybody  who  would  put  awkward  ques- 


312  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

tions,  and  yet  be  would  receive  an  education  as  good 
as  anyone's.  "Probably  better,"  said  Elinor:  "for 
Mr.  Sage  will  have  few  pupils  like  him,  and  therefore 
Avill  gife  him  the  more  attention." 

"  That  means,"  said  John,  "  that  the  boy  will  not  be 
among  his  equals,  which  is  of  all  things  I  know  the 
worst  for  a  boy." 

"  We  are  not  aristocrats,  as  you  are,  John.  They  \vill 
be  more  than  his  equal  in  one  way,  because  many  of 
them  will  be  bigger  and  stronger  than  he,  and  that  is 
what  counts  most  among  boys.  Besides,  we  have  no 
pretensions." 

"  My  dear  Elinor,"  said  John  Tatham  (who  was  by 
this  time  an  exceedingly  successful  lawyer,  member  for 
his  native  borough,  and  within  sight  of  a  Solicitor-Gen- 
eralship), "your  modesty  is  a  little  out  of  character, 
don't  you  think?  There  can  be  no  two  opinions  about 
what  the  boy  is  :  an  aristocrat — if  you  choose  to  use  that 
word,  every  inch  of  him  —  a  little  gentleman,  down  to 
his  fingers'  ends." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  John,"  cried  Pippo's  inconsistent 
mother  ;  "  that  is  the  thing  of  all  others  that  we  hoped 
you  would  say." 

"  And  yet  you  are  going  to  send  him  among  the  far- 
mers' sons.  Fine  fellows,  I  grant  you,  but  not  of  his 
kind.  Have  you  heard,"  he  said,  more  gravely,  "that 
Reginald  Compton  died  last  year?  " 

'•  We  saw  it  in  the  papers,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun. 
Elinor  said  nothing,  but  turned  her  head  away. 

"  And  neither  of  the  others  are  married,  or  likely  to 
marry  ;  one  of  them  is  very  much  broken  down — 

"  Oh,  John,  John,  for  God's  sake  don't  say  anything 
more ! " 

"  I  must,  Elinor.  There  is  but  one  good  life,  and  that 
in  a  dangerous  climate,  and  with  all  the  risks  of  pos- 
sible fighting,  between  the  boy  and " 

"  Don't,  don't,  John  !  " 

"  And  he  does  not  know  who  he  is.  He  is  ignorant 
of  everything,  even  the  fact,  the  great  fact,  which  you 
have  no  right  to  keep  from  him " 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  313 

"John,"  Bbe  cried,  starting  to  her  feet,  "the  boy  is 
mine  :  I  have  a  right  to  deal  with  him  as  I  think  best. 
I  will  not  hear  a  word  you  have  to  say." 

"It  is  vain  to  say  anything,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun  ; 
"  she  will  not  hear  a  word." 

"That  is  all  very  well,  so  far  as  she.  is  concerned," 
said  John,  "  but  I  have  a  part  of  my  own  to  play.  You 
give  me  the  name  of  adviser  and  so  forth — a  man  can- 
not be  your  adviser  if  his  mouth  is  closed  before  he 
speaks.  I  have  a  right  to  speak,  being  summoned  for 
that  purpose.  I  tell  you,  Elinor,  that  you  have  no  right 
to  conceal  from  the  boy  who  he  is,  and  that  his  father 
is  alive." 

She  gave  a  cry  as  if  he  had  struck  her,  and  shrank 
away  behind  her  mother,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"I  am,  more  or  less,  of  your  opinion,  John.  I  have 
told  her  the  same.  While  he  was  a  baby  it  mattered 
nothing,  now  that  he  is  a  rational  creature  with  an  opin- 
ion of  his  own,  like  any  one  of  us " 

"  Mother,"  cried  Elinor,  "  you  are  unkind.  Oh,  you 
are  unkind  !  What  did  it  matter  so  long  as  he  was  a 
baby  ?  But  now  he  is  just  at  the  age  when  he  would 
be — if  you  don't  wish  to  drive  me  out  of  my  senses  al- 
together, don't  say  a  word  more  to  me  of  this  kind." 

"Elinor,"  said  John,  "I  have  said  nothing  on  the 
subject  for  many  years,  though  I  have  thought  much  : 
and  you  must  for  once  hear  reason.  The  boy  belongs 
— to  his  father  as  much  as  to  you.  I  have  said  it !  I 
cannot  take  it  back.  He  belongs  to  the  family  of  which 
he  may  one  day  be  the  head.  You  cannot  throw  away 
his  birthright.  And  think,  if  you  let  him  grow  up  like 
this,  not  knowing  that  he  has  a  family  or  a — unaware 
whom  he  belongs  to." 

"  Have  you  done,  John  ? "  asked  Elinor,  who  had 
made  two  or  three  efforts  to  interrupt,  and  had  been 
beating  her  foot  impatiently  upon  the  ground. 

"If  you  ask  me  in  that  tone,  I  suppose  I  must  say 
yes :  though  I  have  a  great  deal  more  that  I  should  like 
to  say." 

"  Then  hear  me  speak,"  cried  Elinor.     "  Of  us  three 


31 4  THK  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

at  least,  I  am  the  only  one  to  whom  he  belongs.  I  only 
have  power  to  decide  for  him.  And  I  say,  No,  no :  what- 
ever argument  there  may  be,  whatever  plea  you  may 
bring  forward,  No  and  no,  and  after  that  No  !  What ! 
at  fourteen,  just  the  age  when  anything  that  was  said 
to  him  would  tell  the  most ;  when  he  would  learn  a  les- 
son the  quickest,  learn  what  I  would  die  to.  keep  him 
from  !  When  he  would  take  everything  for  gospel  that 
was  said  to  him,  when  the  very  charm  of—  of  that  un- 
known name " 

She  stopped  for  a  moment  to  take  breath,  half  choked 
by  her  own  words. 

"  And  you  ought  to  remember  no  one  has  ever  laid 
claim  to  him.  Why  should  I  tell  him  of  one  that  never 
even  inquired —  No,  John,  no,  no,  no !  A  baby  he 
might  have  been  told,  and  it  would  have  done  him  no 
harm.  Perhaps  you  were  right,  you  and  mother,  and 
I  was  wrong.  He  might  have  known  it  from  the  first, 
and  thought  very  little  of  it,  and  he  may  know  when  he 
is  a  man,  and  his  character  is  formed  and  he  knows 
what  things  mean — but  a  boy  of  fourteen !  Imagine 
the  glamour  there  would  be  about  the  very  name  ;  how 
he  would  feel  we  must  all  have  been  unjust  and  the — 
the  other  injured.  You  know  from  yourself,  John,  how 
he  clings  to  you — you  who-  are  only  a  cousin  ;  he  knows 
that,  yet  he  insists  upon  Uncle  John,  the  one  man  who 
belongs  to  him,  and  looks  up  to  you,  and  thinks  nothing 
of  any  of  us  in  comparison.  I  like  it !  I  like  it !  "  cried 
Elinor,  dashing  the  tears  from  her  eyes.  "  I  am  not 
jealous  :  but  fancy  what  it  would  be  with  the — other, 

the  real,  the I  cannot,  cannot,  say  the  word  ;  yes, 

the  father.  If  it  is  so  with  you,  what  would  it  be  with 
him  ?  " 

John  listened  with  his  head  bent  down,  leaning  on 
his  hand :  every  word  went  to  his  heart.  Yes,  he  was 
nothing  but  a  cousin,  it  was  true.  The  boy  did  not  be- 
long to  him,  was  nothing  to  him.  If  the  father  stepped 
in,  the  real  father,  the  man  of  whom  Philip  had  never 
hoard,  in  all  the  glory  of  his  natural  rights  and  the 
novelty  and  wonder  of  his  existence,  how  different  would 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  315 

that  be  from  any  feeling  that  could  be  raised  by  a 
cousin,  an  uncle,  with  whom  the  boy  had  played  all  his 
life  !  No  doubt  it  was  true  :  and  Phil  Compton  would 
probably  charm  the  inexperienced  boy  with  his  hand- 
some, disreputable  grace,  and  the  unknown  ways  of  the 
man  of  the  world.  And  yet,  he  thought  to  himself, 
there  is  a  perspicacity  about  children  which  is  not  al- 
ways present  in  a  man.  Philip  had  no  precocious  in- 
stincts to  be  tempted  by  his  father's  habits  ;  he  had  the 
true  sight  of  a  boy  trained  amid  everything  that  was 
noble  and  pure.  Would  it  indeed  be  more  dangerous 
now,  when  the  boy  was  a  boy,  with  all  those  safeguards 
of  nature,  than  when  he  was  a  man  ?  John  kept  his 
mind  to  this  question  with  the  firmness  of  a  trained  in- 
telligence, not  letting  himself  go  off  into  other  matters, 
or  pausing  to  feel  the  sting  that  was  in  Elinor's  words, 
the  reminder  that  though  he  had  been  so  much,  he  was 
still  nothing  to  the  family  to  whom  he  had  consecrated 
so  much  of  his  life,  so  much  now  of  his  thoughts. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  agree  with  you,  Elinor,"  he  said 
at  last.  "I  think  it  would  have  been  better  had  he 
always  known  that  his  father  lived,  and  who  he  was, 
and  what  family  he  belonged  to  ;  that  is  not  to  say  that 
you  were  to  thrust  him  into  his  father's  arms.  And  I 
think  now  that,  though  we  cannot  redeem  the  past,  it 
should  be  done  as  soon  as  possible,  and  that  he  should 
know  before  he  goes  to  school.  I  think  the  effect  will 
be  less  now  than  if  the  discovery  bursts  upon  him  when 
he  is  a  young  man,  when  he  finds,  perhaps,  as  may  well 
be,  that  his  position  and  all  his  prospects  are  changed 
in  a  moment,  when  he  may  be  called  upon  without  any 
preparation  to  assume  a  name  and  a  rank  of  which  he 
knows  nothing." 

"  Not  a  name.     He  has  always  borne  his  true  name." 

"  His  true  name  may  be  changed  at  any  mo- 
ment, Elinor.  He  may  become  Lord  Lomond,  and 
the  heir " 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  growing  red,  "  that 
is  a  chance  we  have  never  taken  into  account." 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  it  ?  "  she  said.     "  Is  his 


316  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

happiness  and  his  honour  to  be  put  in  comparison  with 
a  chance,  a  possibility  that  may  never  come  true  V  John, 
for  the  sake  of  everything  that  is  good,  let  him  wait 
till  he  is  a  man  and  knows  good  from  evil." 

"  It  is  that  I  am  thinking  of,  Elinor  ;  a  boy  of  four- 
teen often  knows  good  from  evil  much  better  than  a 
youth  of  twenty-one,  which  is,  I  suppose,  what  you  call 
a  man.  My  opinion  is  that  it  would  be  better  and  safer 
now." 

"  No ! "  ehe  said.  "  And  no  !  I  will  never  consent  to 
it.  If  you  go  and  poison  my  boy's  mind  I  will  never 
forgive  you,  John." 

"  I  have  no  right  to  do  anything,"  he  said  ;  "it  is  of 
course  you  who  must  decide,  Elinor  :  I  advise  only  ;  and 
I  might  as  well  give  that  up,"  he  added,  "  don't  you 
think?  for  you  are  not  to  be  guided  by  me." 

And  she  was  of  course  supreme  in  everything  that 
concerned  her  son.  John,  when  he  could  do  no  more, 
knew  how  to  be  silent,  and  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  if  not  so 
wise  in  this  respect,  was  yet  more  easily  silenced  than 
John.  And  Philip  Compton  went  to  the  old  grammar- 
school  among  the  dales,  where  was  the  young  and  ener- 
getic head-master,  who,  as  Elinor  anticipated,  found 
this  one  pupil  like  a  pearl  among  the  pebbles  of  the 
shore,  and  spared  no  pains  to  polish  him  and  perfect 
him  in  every  way  known  to  the  ambitious  schoolmas- 
ter of  modern  times. 


CHAPTER  XXXIH. 

IT  is  needless  to  say  that  the  years  which  developed 
Elinor's  child  into  a  youth  on  the  verge  of  manhood, 
had  not  passed  by  the  others  of  the  family  without  full 
evidence  of  its  progress.  John  Tatham  was  no  longer 
within  the  elastic  boundaries  of  that  conventional  youth 
which  is  allowed  to  stretch  so  far  when  a  man  remains 
unmarried.  He  might  have  been  characterized  as 
according  to  the  fine  distinction  of  our 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR.  317 

neighbours  in  France,  had  he  desired  it.     But  he  did 
not  desire  it.     He  had  never  altogether  neglected  so- 
ciety, having  a  wholesome  liking  for  the  company  of 
his  fellow  creatures,  but  neither  had  he  ever  plunged 
into  it  as  those  do  who  must  keep  their  places  in  the 
crowd   or   die.     John    had   pursued  the  middle  path, 
which  is  the  most  difficult.     He  had  cultivated  friends, 
not  a  mob  of  acquaintances,  although  as  people  say  he 
"  knew  everybody,"  as  a  man  who  had  attained  his  po- 
sition and  won  his   success  could  scarcely  fail  to  do. 
He  had  succeeded  indeed,  not  in  the  fabulous  way  that 
some  men  do,  but  in  a  way   which  most   men  in  his 
profession  looked  upon  as  in  the  highest  degree  satis- 
factory.    He   had  a  silk  gown  like  any  dowager.     He 
had  been  leading  counsel  in  many  cases  which  were 
now  of  note.    He  was  among,  not  the  two  or  three  per- 
haps, but  the  twenty  or  thirty,  who  were  at  the  head  of 
his  profession.     If  he  had  not  gone  further  it  was  per- 
haps more  from  lack  of  ambition  than  from  want  of 
power.     He  had  been  for  years  in  Parliament,  but  pre- 
ferred his  independence  to  the  chance  of  office.     It  is 
impossible   to   tell   how  John's  character   and  wishes 
might  have  been  modified   had  he   married  and   had 
children  round  him  like  other  men.     Had  the  tall  boy 
in   the  north,  the  young  hero  of  Lakeside,    been  his, 
what  a  difference  would  that  have  made  in  his  views  of 
life  !      But  Philip  was   not  his,  nor  Philip's  mother — 
probably,  as  he  always  said  to  himself,  from  his  own 
fault.     This,   as  the   reader  is  aware,  had  always  been 
fully  recognised  by  John  himself.     Perhaps  in  the  old 
days,  in  those  days  when  everything  was  possible,  he 
had  not  even  recognised  that  there  was  but  one  woman 
in  the  world  whom  he  could  ever  wish  to  marry.    Prob- 
ably it  was  only  her  appropriation  by  another  that  re- 
vealed this  fact  to  him.     There  are  men  like  this  to  be 
found  everywhere  ;  not  so  hotly  constituted  as  to  seize 
for  themselves  what  is  most  necessary  for  their  personal 
happiness — possessed  by  so  many  other  subjects  that 
this  seems  a  thing  to  be  thought  of  by-and-by — which 
by-aud-by  is  generally  too  late. 


318  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

But  John  Tatham  was  neither  a  disappointed  nor  an 
unhappy  man.  He  might  have  attained  a  higher  devel- 
opment and  more  brilliant  and  full  life,  but  that  was 
all  ;  and  how  few  men  are  there  of  whom  this  could  not 
be  said !  He  had  become  Mr.  Tatham  of  Tatham's 
Cross,  as  well  as  Q.C.  and  M.P.,  a  county  gentleman 
of  modest  but  effective  standing,  a  lawyer  of  high  repu- 
tation, quite  eligible  either  for  the  bench  or  for  political 
elevation,  had  he  cared  for  either,  a  member  of  Parlia- 
ment with  a  distinct  standing,  and  therefore  importance 
of  his  own.  There  was  pi-obably  throughout  England 
no  society  in  which  he  could  have  found  himself  where 
his  position  and  impoi'tance  would  have  been  unknown. 
He  was  a  man  approaching  fifty,  who  had  not  yet  lost 
any  of  the  power  of  enjoyment  or  begun  to  feel  the  in- 
roads of  decay,  at  the  very  height  of  life,  and  unconscious 
that  the  ground  would  shortly  begin  to  slope  down- 
wards under  his  feet ;  indeed,  it  showed  no  such  indi- 
cation as  yet,  and  probably  would  not  do  so  for  years. 
The  broad  plateau  of  middle  age  lasts  often  till  sixty, 
or  even  beyond.  There  was  no  reason  to  doubt  that  for 
John  Tatham  it  would  last  as  long  as  for  any  man. 
His  health  was  perfect,  and  his  habits  those  of  a  man 
whose  self  had  never  demanded  indulgences  of  the  vul- 
gar kind.  He  had  given  up  with  some  regret,  but  years 
before,  his  chambers  in  the  Temple  :  that  is,  he  retained 
them  as  chambers,  but  lived  in  them  no  longer.  He 
had  a  house  in  one  of  the  streets  about  Belgrave  Square, 
one  of  those  little  bits  of  awkward,  three-cornered 
streets  where  there  are  some  of  the  pleasantest  houses 
of  a  moderate  kind  in  London ;  furnished  from  top  to 
bottom,  the  stairs,  the  comfortable  quaint  landings,  the 
bits  of  corridor  and  passage,  nothing  naked  or  neglected 
about  it — no  cold  corner  ;  but  nothing  fantastic ;  not 
very  much  ornament,  a  few  good  pictures,  a  great  deal 
of  highly-polished,  old-fashioned  dark  mahogany,  with 
a  general  flavour  of  Sherraton  and  Chippendale  :  and 
abundance  of  books  everywhere.  John  was  able  to  per- 
mit himself  various  little  indulgences  on  which  wives 
arc  said  to  look  with  jealous  eyes.  He  had  a  fancy  for 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  319 

rare  editions  (in  which  I  .sympathise)  and  also  for  bind- 
ings, which  seems  to  me  a  weakness — however,  it  was 
one  which  he  indulged  in  moderation.  He  possessed  in 
his  drawing-room  (which  was  not  very  much  used)  a 
beautiful  old-fashioned  harpsichord,  and  also  he  had  be- 
longing to  him  a  fiddle  of  value  untold.  I  ought,  of 
course,  to  say  violin,  or  rather  to  distinguish  the  instru- 
ment by  its  family  name  ;  I  have  no  doubt  it  was  a 
Stradivarius.  But  there  is  an  affectionate  humour  in 
the  fiddle  which  does  not  consist  with  fine  titles.  He 
had  always  been  fond  of  music,  but  even  the  Stradi- 
varius did  not  beguile  him,  in  the  days  of  which  I  speak, 
to  play,  nor  perhaps  was  his  performance  worthy  of  it, 
though  his  taste  was  said  to  be  excellent.  It  will  be 
perceived  by  all  this  that  John  Tatham's  life  had  many 
pleasures. 

And  I  am  not  myself  sorry  for  him  because  he  was 
not  married,  as  many  people  will  be.  Perhaps  it  is  a 
little  doleful  coming  home,  when  there  is  never  any- 
body looking  out  for  you,  expecting  you.  But  then  he 

i  V  .          A  O     « 

had  never  been  accustomed  to  look  for  that,  and  the  ef- 
fect might  have  been  irksome  rather  than  pleasant. 
His  household  went  on  velvet  under  the  care  of  a  re- 
spectable couple  who  had  "  done  for  "  Mr.  Tatham  for 
years.  He  would  not  have  submitted  to  extortion  or 
waste,  but  everything  was  ample  in  the  house  ;  the 
cook  by  no  means  stinted  in  respect  to  butter  or  any  of 
those  condiments  which  are  as  necessary  to  good  cook- 
ing as  air  is  to  life.  Mr.  Tatham  would  not  have  under- 
stood a  lack  of  anything,  or  that  what  was  served  to 
him  should  not  have  been  the  best,  supplied  and  served 
in  the  best  way.  Failure  on  such  points  would  have  so 
much  surprised  him  that  he  would  scarcely  have  known 
what  steps  to  take.  But  Jervis,  his  butler,  knew  what 
was  best  as  well  as  Mr.  Tatham  did,  and  was  quite  as 
little  disposed  to  put  up  with  any  shortcoming.  I  say  I 
am  not  sorry  for  him  that  he  was  not  married — up  to 
this  time.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  time  does  come 
when  one  becomes  sorry  for  the  well-to-do,  highly  re- 
spectable, refined,  and  agreeable  man  who  has  every- 


320  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

thing  that  heart  can  desire,  except  the  best  things  in 
life — love,  and  the  companionship  of  those  who  are  his 
very  own.  When  old  age  looms  in  sight  everything  is 
changed.  But  Mr.  Tatham,  as  has  been  said,  was  not 
quite  fifty,  and  old  age  seemed  as  far  off  as  if  it  could 
never  be. 

He  was  a  man  who  was  very  good  to  a  number  of 
people,  and  spent  almost  as  much  money  in  being  kind 
as  if  he  had  possessed  extravagant  children  of  his 
own.  His  sister  Mary,  for  instance,  had  married  a 
clergyman  not  very  well  off,  and  the  natural  result  had 
followed.  How  they  could  have  existed  without  Uncle 
John,  much  less  how  they  could  have  stumbled  into 
public  schools,  scholarships,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  would 
be  difficult  to  tell,  especially  now  in  these  days  when  a 
girl's  schooling  ought,  we  are  iold,  to  cost  as  much  as  a 
boy's.  This  latter  is  a  grievance  which  must  be  appar- 
ent to  the  meanest  capacity.  Unless  the  girl  binds 
herself  by  the  most  stringent  vows  not  to  marry  a  poor 
curate  or  other  penniless  man  the  moment  that  you 
have  completed  her  expensive  education,  I  do  not  think 
she  should  in  any  case  be  permitted  to  go  to  Girton, 
It  is  all  very  well  when  the  parents  are  rich  or  the  girls 
have  a  sufficiency  of  their  own.  But  to  spend  all  that  on 
a  process  which,  instead  of  fructifying  in  other  schools 
and  colleges,  or  producing  in  life  a  highly  accomplished 
woman,  is  to  be  lost  at  once  and  swallowed  up  in  an- 
other nursery,  is  the  most  unprofitable  of  benefactions. 
This  is  what  Mary  Tatham 's  eldest  girl  had  just  done, 
almost  before  her  bills  at  Newnham  had  been  paid.  A 
wedding  present  had,  so  to  speak,  been  demanded  from 
Uncle  John  at  the  end  of  the  bayonet  to  show  his  satis- 
faction in  the  event  which  had  taken  all  meaning  out 
of  his  exertions  for  little  Mary.  He  had  given  it  in- 
deed— in  the  shape  not  of  a  biscuit-box,  which  is  what 
she  would  have  deserved,  but  of  a  cheque— but  he  was 
not  pleased.  Neither  was  he  pleased,  as  has  been  seen, 
by  the  proceedings  of  Elinor,  who  had  slighted  all  his 
advice  yet  clung  to  himself  in  a  way  some  women  have. 
I  do  not  know  whether  men  expect  you  to  be  quite  as 


Till::   MALIUIAUE   OF  ELINOR.  321 

much  their  friend  us  over  after  they  have  rejected  your 
counsel  and  taken  their  own  (exactly  opposite)  way  : 
but  women  do,  and  indeed  I  think  expect  you  to  be 
rather  grateful  that  they  have  not  taken  amiss  the  ad- 
vice which  they  have  rejected  and  despised.  This  was 
Elinor's  case.  She  hoped  that  John  was  ashamed  of 
advising  her  to  make  her  boy  acquainted  with  his  family 
and  the  fact  of  his  father's  existence,  and  that  he  duly 
appreciated  the  fact  that  she  did  not  resent  that  advice  ; 
and  then  she  expected  from  him  the  same  attention  to 
herself  and  her  son  as  if  the  boy  had  been  guided  in  his 
and  not  in  her  way.  Thus  it  will  be  seen  his  friends 
and  relations  expected  a  very  great  deal  from  John. 

He  had  gone  to  his  chambers  one  afternoon  after  he 
left  the  law  courts,  and  was  there  very  busily  engaged 
in  getting  up  his  notes  for  to-morrow's  work,  when  he 
received  a  visit  which  awakened  at  once  echoes  of  the 
past  and  alarms  for  the  future  in  John's  mind.  It 
was  very  early  in  the  year,  the  end  of  January,  and  the 
House  was  not  sitting,  so  that  his  public  duties  were 
less  overwhelming  than  usual.  His  room  was  the  same 
in  which  we  have  already  seen  on  various  occasions,  and 
which  Elinor  in  her  youth,  before  anything  had  hap- 
pened to  make  life  serious  for  her,  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  calling  the  Star  Chamber,  for  no  reason  in  the 
world  except  that  law  and  penalties  or  judgments  upon 
herself  in  her  unripe  conviction,  and  suggestions  of 
what  ought  to  be  done,  came  from  that  place  to  which 
Mrs.  Dennistoun  had  made  resort  in  her  perplexities  al- 
most from  the  very  beginning  of  John's  reign  there. 
Mr.  Tatham  had  been  detained  beyond  his  usual  time  by 
the  importance  of  the  case  for  which  he  was  preparing, 
and  a  clerk,  very  impatient  to  get  free,  yet  obliged  to 
simulate  content,  had  lighted  the  lamp  and  replenished 
the  fire.  It  had  always  been  a  comfortable  room.  The 
lamp  by  which  John  worked  had  a  green  shade  which 
concentrated  the  light  upon  a  table  covered  with  that  lit- 
ter of  papers  in  which  there  seemed  so  little  order,  yet 
which  Mr.  Tatham  knew  to  the  last  scrap  as  if  they  had 
been  the  tidiest  in  the  world.  The  long  glazed  book- 
21 


322  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

case  which  filled  up  one  side  of  the  room  gave  a  dark 
reflection  of  the  light  and  of  the  leaping  brightness  of 
the  fire.  The  curtains  were  drawn  over  the  windows. 
If  the  clerk  fumed  in  the  outer  rooms,  here  all  was 
studious  life  and  quiet.  No  spectator  could  have  been 
otherwise  than  impressed  by  the  air  of  absolute  self- 
concentration,  with  which  the  eminent  lawyer  gave  him- 
self up  to  his  work.  He  was  like  his  lamp,  giving  all 
the  light  in  him  to  the  special  subject,  indifferent  to 
everything  outside. 

"What  is  it,  Simmons?"  he  said  abruptly,  without 
looking  up. 

"  A  lady,  sir,  who  says  she  has  urgent  business  and 
must  see  you." 

"A  lady — who  must  see  me."  John  Tatham  smiled 
at  the  very  ineffectual  must,  which  meant  coercion  and 
distraction  to  him.  "  I  don't  see  how  she  is  going  to 
accomplish  that." 

"  I  told  her  so,"  said  the  clerk. 

"  Well,  you  must  tell  her  so  again."  He  had  scarcely 
lifted  his  head  from  his  work,  so  that  it  was  unneces- 
sary to  return  to  it  when  the  door  closed,  and  Mr. 
Tatham  went  on  steadily  as  before. 

It  is  easy  to  concentrate  the  light  of  the  lamp  when 
it  is  duly  shaded  and  no  wind  to  blow  it  about,  and  it 
is  easy  to  concentrate  a  man's  attention  in  the  absolute 
quiet  when  nothing  interrupts  him  ;  but  when  there 
suddenly  rises  up  a  wind  of  talk  in  the  room  which  is 
separated  from  him  only  by  a  door,  a  tempest  of  chat- 
tering words  and  laughter,  shrill  and  bursting  forth  in 
something  like  shrieks,  making  the  student  start,  that 
is  altogether  a  different  business.  The  lady  outside, 
who  evidently  had  multiplied  herself' — unless  it  was 
conceivable  that  the  serious  Simmons  had  made  him- 
self her  accomplice — had  taken  the  cleverest  way  of 
showing  that  she  was  not  to  be  beat  by  any  passive  re- 
sistance of  busy  man,  though  not  even  an  audible  con- 
versation with  Simmons  would  have  startled  or  dis- 
turbed his  master,  to  whom  it  would  have  been  appar- 
ent that  Lis  faithful  vassal  was  thus  defending  his  own 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  323 

stronghold  and  innermost  retirement.  But  this  was 
quite  independent  of  Simmons,  a  discussion  in  two 
voices,  one  high-pitched  and  shrill,  the  other  softer,  but 
both  absolutely  unrestrained  by  any  consciousness  of 
being  in  a  place  where  the  chatter  of  strange  voices  is 
forbidden,  and  stillness  and  quiet  a  condition  of  being. 
The  sound  of  the  talk  rang  through  Mr.  Tatham's  head 
as  if  all  the  city  bells  were  ringing.  One  of  the  un- 
seen ladies  had  a  very  shrill  laugh,  to  which  she  gave 
vent  freely.  John  fidgeted  in  his  chair,  raised  up  his 
eyes  above  the  level  of  his  spectacles  (he  wore  specta- 
cles, alas  !  by  this  time  habitually  when  he  worked)  as 
if  lifting  a  voiceless  appeal  to  those  powers  who  interest 
themselves  in  law  cases  to  preserve  him  from  disturb- 
ance, then  made  a  manly  effort  to  disregard  the  sounds 
that  filled,  the  air,  returning  with  a  shake  of  his  head  to 
his  reading.  But  at  the  end  of -a  long  day,  and  in  the 
dulness  of  the  afternoon,  perhaps  a  man  is  less  capable 
than  at  other  moments  to  fight  against  interruption  of 
this  kind  and  finally  he  threw  down  his  papers  and 
touched  his  bell.  Simmons  came  in  full  of  pale  indig- 
nation, which  made  itself  felt  even  beyond  the  circle, 
illuminated  by  the  lamp. 

"  What  can  I  do ?  "  he  said.  "They've  planted  them- 
selves by  the  fire,  and  there  they  mean  to  stay.  '  Oh, 
very  well,  we'll  wait/  they  said,  quite  calm.  And  I 
make  no  doubt  they  will,  having  nothing  else  to  do,  till 
all  is  blue." 

Mr.  Simmons  had  a  gift  of  expression  of  which  all 
his  friends  were  flatteringly  sensible,  and  he  was  very 
friendly  and  condescending  to  John,  of  whom  he  had 
taken  care  for  many  years. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ?  "  said  Mr.  Tatham.  "  Can't 
you  do  anything  to  get  them  away  ?  " 

Simmons  shook  his  head.  "  There's  two  of  them," 
he  said,  "  and  they  entertain  each  other,  and  they  think 
it's  fun  to  jabber  like  that  in  a  lawyer's  office.  The 
young  one  says,  '  What  a  queer  place  ! '  and  the  other, 
she  holds  forth  about  other  times  when  she's  been 
here." 


3-24  TllK  M. \-Wl.\Cl-:   OF   K/JXOR. 

'•  Ob,  she's  been  here  other  tiihes —  Do  you  know 
her,  Simmons  ?  " 

"Not  from  Adam,  Mr.  Tatharn — or,  I  should  say, 
from  Eve,  as  she's  a  lady.  But  a  real  lady  I  should  say, 
though  she  don't  behave  herself  as  such — one  of  the 
impudent  ones.  They  are  never  impudent  like  that," 
said  Mr.  Simmons,  with  profound  observation,  "  unless 
they  are  real  high  or — real  low." 

"  Hum  ! "  said  John,  hesitating.  And  then  he  added, 
"  There  is  a  young  one,  you  say  V  " 

But  I  do  not  myself  think,  though  the  light-minded 
may  imagine  it  to  be  so,  that  it  was  because  there  was 
a  young  one  that  John  gave  in.  It  was  because  he 
could  do  nothing  else,  the  noise  and  chatter  of  the 
voices  being  entirely  destructive  of  that  undisturbed 
state  of  the  atmosphere  in  which  work  can  be  done. 
It  was  not  merely  the  sounds  but  the  vibration  they 
made  in  the  air,  breaking  all  its  harmony  and  concen- 
tration. He  tried  a  little  longer,  but  was  unsuccessful, 
and  finally  in  despair  he  said  to  Simmons,  "  You  had 
better  show  them  in,  and  let  me  get  done  with  them," 
in  an  angry  tone. 

"Oh,  he  will  see  us  after  all,"  said  the  high-pitched 
voice.  "  So  good  of  Mr.  Tatham  ;  but  of  course  I 
should  have  waited  all  the  same.  Dolly,  take  Toto  ;  I 
can't  possibly  get  up  while  I  have  him  on  my  knee. 
You  can  tell  Mr.  Tatham  I  did  not  send  in  my  name  to 
disturb  him,  which  makes  it  all  the  more  charitable  of 
him  to  receive  me  ;  but,  dear  me,  of  course  I  can  tell 
him  that  himself  as  he  consents  to  see  us.  Dolly,  don't 
strangle  my  poor  darling  !  I  never  saw  a  girl  that  didn't 
know  how  to  take  up  a  dear  dog  before." 

"  He's  only  a  snappish  little  demon,  and  you  spoil 
him  so,"  said  the  other  voice.  This  was  attended  by 
the  sound  of  movement  as  if  the  party  were  getting 
under  weigh. 

"  My  poor  darling  pet,  it  is  only  her  jealousy  :  is 
that  the  way?  YOH,  to  be  sure  it  is  the  next  room. 
Now,  Dolly,  remember  this  is  where  all  the  poor  people 
are  ruined  and  done  for.  Leave  hope  behind  all  ye 


THE  MARRIAGE  "p  ELTXOR.  325 

•who  enter  here."  A  little  shriek  of  laughter  emltd 
this  speech.  And  John,  looking  up,  taking  off  his 
spectacles,  and  raising  a  little  the  shade  of  the  lamp, 
saw  in  the  doorway  Lady  Mariamne,  altered-  as  was  in- 
evitable by  the  strain  and  stress  of  nearly  twenty  years. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

I  DO  not  mean  to  assert  that  John  Tatham  had  not 
seen  Lady  Mariamne  during  these  twenty  years,  or  that 
her  changed  appearance  burst  upon  him  with  anything 
like  a  shock.  In  society,  when  you  are  once  a  member 
of  that  little  world  within  a  world,  everybody  sees 
everybody  else  from  time  to  time.  He  had  not  recog- 
nised her  voice,  for  he  was  not  in  the  smallest  degree 
thinking  of  Lady  Mariamne  or  of  any  member  of  her 
family,  notwithstanding  that  they  now  and  then  did 
make  a  very  marked  appearance  in  his  mind  in  respect 
of  the  important  question  of  that  connection  which 
Elinor  in  her  foolishn'ess  tried  to  ignore.  And  John 
was  not  at  all  shocked  by  the  progress  of  that  twenty 
years,  as  reflected  in  the  appearance  of  this  lady,  who 
was  about  his  own  standing,  a  woman  very  near  fifty, 
but  who  had  fought  strenuously  against  every  sign  of 
her  age,  as  some  women  foolishly  do.  The  result  was 
in  Lady  Mariauine's  case,  as  in  many  others,  that  the 
number  of  her  years  looked  more  like  a  hundred  and 
fifty  than  their  natural  limit  A  woman  of  her  class 
has  but  two  alternatives  as  she  gets  old.  She  must  get 
stout,  in  which  case,  though  she  becomes  unwieldy,  she 
preserves  something  of  her  bloom  ;  or  she  may  grow 
thin,  and  become  a  spectre  upon  which  art  has  to  do  so 
much  that  nature,  flouted  and  tortured,  becomes  vin- 
dictive, and  withdraws  every  modifying  quality.  Lady 
Mariamne  had,  I  fear,  false  hair,  false  teeth,  false  com- 
plexion, everything  that  invention  could  do  in  a  poor 
little  human  countenance  intended  for  no  such  manipu- 


326  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

lation.  The  consequence  was  that  every  natural  aclvan. 
tage  (and  there  are  some  which  age  confers,  as  well  as 
many  that  age  takes  away)  was  lost.  The  skin  was 
parchment,  the  eyes  were  like  eyes  of  fishes,  the  teeth 
— too  white  and  too  perfect — looked  like  the  horrible 
things  in  the  dentists'  windows,  which  was  precisely 
what  they  were.  On  such  a  woman,  the  very  height 
of  the  fashion,  to  which  she  so  often  attaches  herself 
with  desperation,  has  an  antiquated  air.  Everything 
"swears,"  as  the  French  say,  with  everything  else. 
The  softness,  the  whiteness,  the  ease,  the  self-abnega- 
tion of  advancing  age  are  all  so  many  ornaments  if 
people  but  knew.  But  Lady  Mariamne  had  none  of 
these.  She  wore  a  warm  cloak  in  her  carriage,  it  is 
true,  but  that  had  dropped  from  her  shoulders,  leaving 
her  in  all  the  bound-up  rigidity  in  which  youth  is  trim 
and  slim  and  elastic,  as  becomes  it.  It  is  true  that  many 
a  woman  of  fifty  is,  as  John  Tatham  was,  serenely  dwell- 
ing on  that  tableland  which  shows  but  little  difference 
between  thirty-five,  the  crown  of  life,  and  fifty-five  ; 
but  Lady  Mariamne  was  not  one  of  these.  She  had 
gone  "  too  fast,"  she  would  herself  have  allowed  ;  "  the 
pace  "  had  been  too  much  for  such  survivals.  She  was 
of  the  awful  order  of  superannuated  beauties  of  which 
Mr.  Rider  Haggard  would  in  vain  persuade  us  "She" 
was  not  one.  I  ana  myself  convinced  that  "  She's " 
thousands  of  years  were  all  written  on  her  fictitious 
complexion,  and  that  other  people  saw  them  clearly  if 
not  her  unfortunate  lover.  And  Lady  Mariamne  had 
come  to  be  of  the  order  of  "She."  By  dint  of  wiping 
out  the  traces  of  her  fifty  years,  she  had  made  herself 
look  as  if  she  might  have  been  a  thousand,  and  in  this 
guise  she  appeared  to  the  robust,  ruddy,  well-preserved 
man  of  her  own  age,  as  she  stood,  with  a  fantastic  little 
giggle,  calling  his  attention,  on  the  threshold  of  his 
door. 

Behind  Lady  Mariamne  was  a  very  different  figure — 
that  of  the  serious  and  independent  girl  without  any  il- 
lusions, who  is  in  so  many  cases  the  child  of  such  a 
mother,  and  who  is  in  revolt  so  complete  from  all  that 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  327 

mother's  traditions,  so  highly  set  on  the  crown  of  every 
opposite  principle,  that  nature  vindicates  itself  by  the 
possibility  that  she  may  at  any  moment  topple  over 
and  become  again  what  her  mother  was.  He  would 
have  been  a  bold  man,  however,  who  in  the  present  stage 
would  have  prophesied  any  such  fate  for  Dolly  Prest- 
wicb,  who  between  working  at  Whitechapel,  attending 
on  a  ward  in  St.  Thomas's,  drawing  three  days  a  week 
in  the  Slade  School,  and  other  labours  of  equally  varied 
descriptions,  had  her  time  very  fully  taken  up,  and  only 
on  special  occasions  had  time  to  accompany  her  mother. 
She  had  been  beguiled  on  this  occasion  by  the  family 
history  which  was  concerned,  and  which,  Jin  de  siecle 
as  Dolly  was,  excited  her  curiosity  almost  as  much  as 
if  she  had  been  born  in  the  "  forties."  Dolly  was  never 
unkind,  sometimes  indeed  was  quite  the  reverse,  to  her 
mother.  When  Mr.  Tatham,  with  a  man's  brutal  un- 
consciousness of  what  is  desirable,  placed  a  chair  for 
Lady  Mariamne  in  front  of  the  fire,  Dolly  twisted  it 
round  with  a  dexterous  movement  so  as  to  shield  the 
countenance  which  was  not  adapted  for  any  such  illu- 
mination. For  herself,  Dolly  cared  nothing,  whether  it 
was  the  noonday  sun  or  the  blaze  of  a  furnace  that  shone 
upon  her  ;  she  defied  them  both  to  make  her  wink.  As 
for  complexion,  she  scorned  that  old-fashioned  vanity. 
She  had  not  very  much,  it  is  true.  Having  been  scorched 
red  and  brown  in  Alpine  expeditious  in  the  autumn, 
she  was  now  of  a  somewhat  dry  whitish-greyish  hue, 
the  result  of  much  loss  of  cuticle  and  constant  encounter 
with  London  fogs  and  smoke.  She  carried  Toto — who 
was  a  shrinking,  chilly  Italian  greyhound — in  a  coat, 
carelessly  under  one  arm,  and  sat  down  beside  her 
mother,  studying  the  papers  on  John's  table  with  ex- 
ceedingly curious  eyes.  She  would  have  liked  to  go 
over  all  his  notes  about  his  case,  and  form  her  own  opin- 
ion on  it — which  she  would  have  done,  we  may  be  sure, 
much  more  rapidly,  and  with  more  decision,  than  Mr. 
Tatham  could  do. 

"  So  here  I  am  again,  you  will  say,"  said  Lady  Mari- 
amne.    She  had  taken  off  her  gloves,  and  was  smooth- 


328  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

ing  her  hands,  from  the  points  of  (lie  fingers  downwards, 
not,  I  believe,  with  any  intention  of  demonstrating  their 
whiteness,  but  solely  because  she  had  once  done  so, 
and  the  habit  remained.  She  wore  several  fine  rings, 
and  her  hands  were  still  pretty,  and — unlike  the  rest 
of  her — younger  than  her  age.  They  made  a  little  show 
with  their  sparkling  diamonds,  just  catching  the  edge 
of  the  tight  from  John's  shaded  lamp.  Her  face  by 
Dolly's  help  was  in  the  shadow  of  the  green  shade. 
"  You  will  say  so,  Mr.  Tat  ham,  I  know  :  here  she  is 
again — without  thinking  how  self-denying  I  have  been, 
never  to  come,  never  to  ask  a  single  question,  for  all 
these  years." 

"  The  loss  is  mine,  Lady  Mariamne,"  said  John, 
gravely. 

"  It's  very  pretty  of  you  to  say  that,  isn't  it,  Dolly  ? 
One's  old  flirts  don't  always  show  up  so  well."  And 
here  the  lady  gave  a  laugh,  such  as  had  once  been  sup- 
posed to  be  one  of  Lady  Mariamne's  charms,  but  which 
was  rather  like  a  giggle  now — an  antiquated  giggle, 
which  is  much  less  satisfactory  than  the  genuine  article. 
"How  I  used  to  worry  you  aboiit  poor  Phil,  and  that 
little  spitfire  of  a  Nell — and  what  a  mess  they  have 
made  of  it!  I  suppose  you  know  what  changes  have 
happened  in  the  family,  Mr.  Tatham,  since  those 
days  ?  " 

"I  heard  indeed,  with  regret,  Lady  Mariamne,  that 
you  had  lost  a  brother " 

"  A  brother  !  two  !  "  she  cried.  "  Isn't  it  extraordi- 
nai1}; — poor  Hal,  that  was  the  picture  of  health  ?  How 
little  one  knows  !  He  just  went,  don't  you  know,  with- 
out any  one  ever  thinking  he  would  go.  Regg  in  India 
was  different — you  expect  that  sort  of  thing  when  a  man 
is  in  India.  But  poor  Hal  !  I  told  you  Mr.  Tatham 
wouldn't  have  heard  of  it,  Dolly,  not  being  in  our  own 
set,  don't  you  know." 

"  It  was  in  all  the  papers,"  said  Miss  Dolly. 

"Ah,  well,  you  didn't  notice  it,  I  suppose  :  or  perhaps 
you  were  away.  I  always  say  it  is  of  no  use  being  mar- 
ried or  dying  or  anything  else  in  September — your 


THE  XARRTAKT.    OF   Ef.iyOR. 

friends  uever  hear  of  it.  You  will  wonder  that  I  am  not 
iu  black,  but  black  .ys  very  unbecoming  to  me, 

and  dark  grey  is  just  as  good,  and  doesn't  make  one 
quite  so  ghastly.  But  the  funny  thing  is  that  now  Phil 
— who  looked  as  if  he  never  could  be  in  the"  running, 
don't  you  know — is  heir  presumptive.  Isn't  it  extraor- 
dinary? Two  gone,  and  Phil,  that  Kved  much  faster 
than  either  of  them,  and  at  one  time  kept  up  an  awful 
pace,  has  seen  them  both  out.  And  St.  Serf  has  never 
married.  He  won't  now,  though  I  have  been  at  him  on 
the  subject  for  years.  He  says,  not  if  he  knows  it,  in 
the  horrid  way  men  hav  I  don't  wonder  much, 

for  he  ha.s  had  some  nasty  experiences,  poor  fellow. 

There  was  Lady Oh,  I  almost  forgot  you  were 

there,  Dolly." 

"  You  needn't  mind  me/'  said  Dolly,  gravely  ;  "I've 
heard  just  as  bad." 

"Well,"  said  Lady  Mariamne,  with  a  giggle,  "did 
you  ever  know  anything  like  those  girls?  They  are  not 
afraid  of  anything.  Now,  when  I  was  a  girl — don't  you 
remember  what  an  innocent  dear  I  was,  Mr.  Tatham  V 
— like  a  1  unb  ;  never  suspecting  that  there  was  any 
naughtiness  in  the  world " 

John  endeavoured  to  put  on  a  smile,  in  feeble  sympa- 
thy with  the  uproariousness  of  Lady  Mariamne's  laugh 
— but  her  daughter  took  no  such  trouble.  She  sat  as 
grave  as  a  young  judge,  never  rnoviug  a  muscle.  The 
dog,  however,  held  in  her  arms,  and  not  at  all  comfort- 
able, then  making  prodigious  efforts  to  struggle  on  to  its 
mistress's  morn-  commodious  lap,  burst  out  into  a  respon- 
sive bark,  as  shrill  and  not  much  unlike. 

"  Darling  Toto,"  said  Lady  Mariamne,  "  come  ! — it 
always  knows  what  it's  mummy  means.  Did  you  ever 
see  such  a  darling  little  head,  Mr.  Tatham  ? — and '  the 
faithful  pet  always  laughs  when  I  laugh.  What  was  I 
talking  of? — St.  Serf  and  his  ladies.  Well,  it  is  not 
much  wonder,  you  know,  is  it?  for  he  has  always  been 
a  sort  of  an  invalid,  and  he  will  never  marry  now — and 
poor  H-'xl  being  gone  there's  only  Phil.  Phil's  been  go- 
ing a  pace,  Mr.  Tatham  ;  but  he  has  had  a  bad  illness, 


330  TEE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

too,  and  the  other  boys  going  has  sobered  him  a  bit ; 
and  I  do  believe,  now,  that  he'll  probably  mend.  And 

there  he  is,  you  know,  tied  to  a Oh,  of  course,  die 

is  as  right  as  a — as  right  as  a — trivet,  whatever  that  may 
be.  Those  sort  of  heartless  people  always  are  :  and  then 
there's  the  child.  Is  it  living,  Mr.  Tatham  ? — that's  what 
I  want  to  know." 

"Philip  is  alive  and  well,  Lady  Mariamne,  if  that  is 
what  you  want  to  know." 

"  Philip  !— she  called  him  after  Phil,  after  all !  Well, 
that  is  sornehiug  wonderful.  I  expected  to  hear  he 
was  John,  or  Jonathan,  or  something.  Now,  where  is 
he  ?  "  said  Lady  Mariamne,  with  the  most  insinuating 
air. 

John  burst  into  a  short  laugh.  "I  don't  suppose  you 
expect  me  to  tell  you,"  he  said. 

"Why  not? — you  can't  hide  a  boy  that  is  heir  to  a 
peerage,  Mr.  Tatham  ! — it  is  impossible.  Nell  has  done 
the  best  she  coidd  in  that  way.  They  know  nothing 
about  her  in  that  awful  place  she  was  married  from — 
of  course  you  remember  it — a  dreadful  place,  enough  to 
make  one  commit  suicide,  don't  you  know.  The  Cot- 
.tage,  or  whatever  they  call  it,  is  let,  and  nobody  knows 
anything  about  them.  I  took  the  trouble  to  go  there, 
I  assure  you,  on  my  own  hook,  to  see  if  I  could  find  out 
something.  Toto  nearly  died  of  it,  didn't  you,  darling? 
Not  a  drop  of  cream  to  be  had  for  him,  the  poor  angel  ; 
only  a  little  nasty  skim  milk.  But  Mr.  Tatham  has  the 
barbarity  to  smile,"  she  went  on,  with  a  shrill  outcry. 
"  Fancy,  Toto — the  cruelty  to  smile  !  " 

"  No  cream  for  the  angel,  and  no  information  for  his 
mistress,"  said  John. 

"  You  horrid,  cruel,  cold-blooded  man  ! — and  you  sit 
there  at  your  ease,  and  will  do  nothing  for  us " 

"  Should  you  like  me,"  said  John,  "  to  send  out  for 
cream  for  your  dog,  Lady  Mariamne?'' 

"Cream  in  the  Temple  ?"  said  the  lady.  "What 
sort  of  a  compound  would  it  be,  Dolly  ?  All  plaster  of 
Paris,  or  stuff  of  that  sort.  Perhaps  you  have  tea  some- 
times in  these  parts " 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELIXOR.  331 

"  Very  seldom,"  said  John  ;  "but  it  might  be  obtain- 
able if  you  would  like  it."  He  put  forward  his  hand, 
but  not  with  much  alacrity,  to  the  bell. 

"  Mother  never  takes  any  tea,"  said  Miss  Dolly,  has- 
tily ;  "she  only  crumbles  down  cake  into  it  for  that 
little  brute." 

"  It  is  you  who  are  a  little  brute,  you  unnatural  child. 
Toto  likes  his  tea  very  much — he  is  dying  for  it.  But 
you  must  have  patience,  my  pet,  for  probably  it  would 
be  very  bad,  and  the  cream  all  stucco,  or  something. 
Mr.  Tatham,  do-tell  us  what  has  become  of  Nell  ?  Now, 
have  you  hidden  her  somewhere  in  London,  St.  John's 
Wood,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  don't  you  know  ?  or  where 
is  she  ?  Is  the  old  woman  living?  and  how  has  that 
boy  been  brought  up  ?  At  a  dame's  school,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort,  I  suppose." 

"  Mother,"  said  Dolly,  "  you  ought  to  know  there  are 
now  no  dame's  schools.  There's  Board  Schools,  which 
is  what  you  mean,  I  suppose  ;  and  it  would  be  veiy 
good  for  him  if  he  had  been  there.  They  would  teach 
him  a  great  deal  more  than  was  ever  taught  to  Uncle 
Phil."  ' 

"  Teach  him  !  "  said  Lady  Mariamne,  with  another 
shriek.  "  Did  I  ask  anything  about  teaching?  Heaven 
forbid  !  Mr.  Tatham  knows  what  I  mean,  Dolly.  Has 
he  been  at  any  decent  place — or  has  he  been  where  it 
will  never  be  heard  of  ?  Eton  and  Harrow  one  knows, 
and  the  dame's  schools  one  knows,  but  horrible  Board 
Schools,  or  things,  where  they  might  say  young  Lord 
Lomond  was  brought  up — oh,  goodness  gracious  !  One 
has  to  bear  a  great  many  things,  but  I  could  not  bear 
that," 

"  It  does  not  matter  much,  does  it,  so  long  as  he  does 
not  come  within  the  range  of  his  nearest  relations?" 
This  was  from  John,  who  was  almost  at  the  end  of  his 
patience.  He  began  to  put  his  papers  back  in  a  port- 
folio, with  the  intention  of  carrying  them  home  with 
him,  for  his  hour's  work  had  been  spoilt  as  well  as  his 
temper.  "I  am  afraid,"  he  added,  "  that  I  cannot  give 
you  any  information,  Lady  Mariamne." 


332  THE  MA  RET  AGE   OF   KIJNOK. 

"  Oh,  such  nousense,  Mr.  Tatham  !— as  if  the  beir  to 
a  peerage  could  be  bid." 

It  was  not  often  that  Lady  Mariamne  produced  an 
unanswerable  effect,  but  against  this  last  sentence  of 
hers  John  had  absolutely  nothing  to  say.  He  stared  at 
her  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  returned  to  his  papers, 
shovelling  them  into  the  portfolio  with  vehemence. 
Fortunately,  she  did  not  herself  see  how  potent  was  her 
argument.  She  went  on  diluting  it  till  it  lost  all  its 
power. 

"  There  is  the  'Peerage,'  if  it  was  nothing  else — they 
must  have  the  right  particulars  for  that.  Why,  Dolly 
is  at  full  length  in  it,  her  age  and  all,  poor  child  ;  and 
Toto,  too,  for  anything  I  know.  Is  du  in  the  '  Peer- 
age,' dear  Toto,  darling?  And  yet  Toto  can't  succeed, 
nor  Dolly  either.  And  this  year  Phil  will  be  in  as  heir 
presumptive  and  his  marriage  and  all — and  then  a  blank 
line.  It's  ridiculous,  it's  horrible,  it's  a  thing  that  can't, 
can't  be  !  Only  think  of  all  the  troops  of  people,  nice 
people,  the  best  people,  that  read  the  .'  Peerage,'  Mr. 
Tatliam  ! — and  that  know  Phil  is  married,  and  that 
there  is  a  child,  and  yet  will  see  nothing  but  that  blank 
line.  Nell  was  always  a  little  fool,  and  never  could  see 
things  in  a  common-sense  way.  But  a  man  ought  to 
know  better — and  a  lawyer,  with  chambers  in  the  Tem- 
ple !  Why,  people  come  and  consult  you  on  such  mat- 
ters— I  might  be  coming  to  ask  you  to  send  out  detec- 
tives, and  that  sort  of  thing.  How  do  you  dare  to  hide 
away  that  boy?  •' 

Lady  Mariamne  stamped  her  foot  at  John,  \>\\i  this 
proceeding  very  much  incommoded  Toto,  who,  dis- 
turbed in  his  position  on  her  knee,  got  upon  his  feet 
and  began  to  l>;;rk  furiously,  first  at  his  mistress  and 
then,  following  her  impulse,  at  the  gentleman  opposite 
to  her,  backing  against  the  lady's  shoulder  and  setting 
up  his  little  nose  furiously  with  vibrations  of  rage 
against,  John,  while  stumbling  upon  the  uncertain  foot- 
ing of  the  lap,  volcanically  shaken  by  the  movement. 
The  result  of  this  onslaught  was  to  send  Lady  Mari- 
amne into  shrieks  of  laughter,  in  the  midst  of  which 


TEE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

she  half  smothered  Toto  with  mingled  endearments  and 
attempts  at  restraint,  until  Dolly,  coming  to  the  rescue, 
seized  him  summarily  and  snatched  him  away. 

"The  darling  !  "  cried  Lady  Marianme,  "  he  sees  it, 
and  you  can't  see  it,  a  great  big  lawyer  though  you 
are.  Dolly,  don't  throttle  my  angel  child.  Stands  up 
for  his  family,  don't  he,  the  dear?  Mr.  Tatharn,  how 
can  you  be  so  bigoted  and  stubborn,  when  our  dear  lit- 
tle Toto But  you  always  were  the  most  obsti- 
nate man.  Do  you  remember  once,  when  I  wanted  to 
take  you  to  Lady  Dogberry's  dance — wasn't  it  Lady 
Dogberry's? — well,  it  was  Lady  Somebody's — and  you 
said  you  were  not  asked,  and  I  said,  what  did  it  matter  : 
but  to  make  you  go,  and  Xell  was  with  me — we  might 
as  well  have  tried  to  make  St.  Paul's  go " 

"  My  dear  Lady  Marianme,"  said  John. 

She  held  up  a  finger  at  him  with  the  engaging  play- 
fulness of  old.  '"  How  can  I  be  your  dear  Lady  Mari- 
arane,  Mr.  Tat  ham,  when  you  won't  do  a  thing  I  ask 
you  ?  What,  Dolly  ?  Yes,  we  must  go,  of  course,  or  I 
shall  not  have  my  nap  before  dinner.  I  always  have  a 
nap  before  dinner,  for  the  sake  of  my  complexion,  don't 
you  know —  my  beauty  nap,  they  call  it.  Now,  Mr.  Tat- 
ham,  come  to  me  to-morrow,  and  you  shall  give  Toto  his 
cream,  to  show  you  bear  no  malice,  and  tell  me  all 
about  the  boy.  Don't  be  an  obstinate  pig,  Mr.  Tatham. 
Now,  I  shall  look  for  you — without  fail.  Shan't  we  look 
for  him,  Dolly  ? — and  Toto  will  give  you  a  paw  and  for- 
give you — and  you  must  tell  me  all  about  the  boy." 


CHAPTEK  XXXV. 

To  tell  her  all  about  the  boy  ! 

John  Tatham  shovelled  his  papers  into  his  portfolio, 
and  shut  it  up  with  a  snap  of  embarrassment,  a  sort  of 
confession  of  weakness.  He  pushed  buck  his  chair  with 


334  THE  MAURI  AGE  OF  ELINOR. 

the  same  sharpness,  almost  making  a  noise  upon  tbe  old 
Turkey  carpet,  and  he  touched  his  bell  so  that  it 
sounded  with  a  shrill  electric  ping,  almost  like  a  pistol- 
shot.  Simmons  understood  all  these  signs,  and  he  was 
very  sympathetic  when  he  came  in  to  take  Mr.  Tatham's 
last  orders  and  help  him  on  with  his  coat. 

"Spoilt  your  evening's  work,"  said  Simmons,  compas- 
sionately. "I  knew  they  would.  Ladies  never  should 
enter  a  gentleman's  chambers  if  I  could  help  it.  They've 
got  nothing  to  do  in  the  Temple." 

"You  forget  some  men  in  the  Temple  are  married, 
Simmons." 

"What  does  that  matter?  "  said  the  clerk  ;  "  let  'em 
see  their  wives  at  home,  sir.  What  I  will  maintain  is 
that  ladies  have  no  business  here." 

This  was  a  little  ungrateful,  it  must  be  said,  for  Sim- 
mons probably  got  off  three-quarters  of  an  hour  earlier 
than  he  would  have  done  had  Mr.  Tathani  remained 
undisturbed.  As  it  was,  John  had  some  ten  minutes  to 
wait  before  his  habitual  hansom  drew  up  at  the  door. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  by  many  times  that  Mr.  Tat- 
ham  had  considered  the  question  which  he  now  took 
with  him  into  his  hansom,  and  which  occupied  him 
more  or  less  all  the  way  to  Halkiu  Street.  Lady  Mari- 
amne,  however,  had  put  it  very  neatly  and  very  con- 
clusively when  she  said  that  you  can't  hide  the  heir  to 
a  peerage — mojre  concisely  at  least  than  John  had  him- 
self put  it  in  his  many  thoughts  on  the  subject — for,  to 
tell  the  truth,  John  had  never  considered  the  boy  in 
this  aspect.  That  he  should  ever  be  the  heir  to  a  peer- 
age had  seemed  one  of  those  possibilities  which  so  out- 
rage nature,  and  are  so  very  like  fiction,  that  the  sober 
mind  rejects  them  with  almost  a  fling  of  impatience. 
And  yet  how  often  they  come  true!  He  had  never 
heard — a  fact  of  which  he  felt  partly  ashamed,  for  it  was 
an  event  of  too  much  importance  to  be  ignored  by  any 
one  connected  with  Elinor — of  Hal  Compton's  death. 
John  was  not  acquainted  with  Hal  Compton  any  more 
than  he  was  with  other  men  who  come  and  go  in  so- 
ciety, occasionally  seen,  but  open  to  no  particular  re- 


THE  MAURI  AGE  OF  ELIXOlt.  335 

mark.  A  son  of  Lord  St.  Serf — the  best  of  the  lot — a 
Compton  with  very  little  against  him  :  these  were 
things  which  he  had  heard  said  and  had  taken  little 
notice  of.  Hal  was  healthier,  less  objectionable,  a 
better  life  than  Phil's,  and  yet  Hal  was  gone,  who  ought 
by  all  rights  to  have  succeeded  his  invalid  brother.  It 
was  true  that  the  invalid  brother,  who  had  seen  the  end 
of  two  vigorous  men,  might  also  see  out  Phil.  But 
that  would  make  little  difference  in  the  position,  unless 
indeed  by  modifying  Elinor's  feelings  and  removing  her 
reluctance  to  make  her  boy  known.  John  shook  his 
head  as  he  went  on  with  his  thoughts,  and  decided 
within  himself  that  this  was  the  very  reason  why  Phil 
Compton  should  survive  and  become  Lord  St.  Serf,  and 
make  the  imbroglio  worse,  if  worse  were  possible.  It 
had  not  required  this  to  make  it  a  hideous  imbroglio, 
the  most  foolish  and  wanton  that  ever  a  woman  made. 
He  wondered  at  himself  when  he  thought  of  it  how  he 
had  ever  consented  to  it,  ever  permitted  such  a  state 
of  affairs ;  and  yet  what  could  he  have  done  ?  He  had 
no  right  to  interfere  even  in  the  way  of  advice,  which 
he  had  given  until  everybody  was  sick  of  him  and  his 
counsels.  He  could  not  have  betrayed  his  cousin.  To 
tell  her  that  she  was  conducting  her  affiiirs  very  fool- 
ishly, laying  up  untold  troubles  for  herself,  was  what 
he  had  done  freely,  going  to  the  very  edge  of  a  breach. 
And  he  had  no  right  to  do  any  more.  He  could  not 
force  her  to  adopt  his  method,  neither  could  he  betray 
her  when  she  took  her  own  way.  Nevertheless,  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  John  felt  himself  almost  an  ac- 
complice, involved  in  this  unwise  folly,  with  a  sort  of 
responsibility  for  it,  and  almost  guilt.  It  did  not  in- 
deed change  young  Philip's  moral  position  in  any  way, 
or  make  the  discovery  that  he  had  a  father  living  more 
likely  to  shock  and  bewilder  him  that  this  discovery 
should  come  mingled  with  many  extraneous  wonders. 
And  yet  these  facts  did  alter  the  circumstances.  "  You 
cannot  hide  the  heir  to  a  peerage."  Lady  Mariamue 
was  far,  very  far,  from  being  a  philosopher  or  a  person 
of  genius,  and  yet  this  which  she  had  said  was  in  reality 


quite  unanswerable.  Phil  Compton  might  have  been 
ignored  for  ever  by  his  wife  and  child  had  he  remained 
only  the  ^--Honourable  Phil,  a  younger  son  and  a  no- 
body. But  Phil  Coiupton  as  Lord  St.  Serf  could  not 
be  ignored.  Elinor  had  been  wise  enough  never  to 
change  her  name,  that  is  to  say,  she  had  been  too  proud 
to  do  so,  though  nobody  knew  of  the  existence  of  that 
prefix  •which  was  so  inappropriate  to  her  husband's 
character.  But  now  Mrs.  Compton  would  no  longer  be 
her  name  ;  and  Philip,  the  boy  at  the  big  northern 
grammar-school,  would  be  Lord. Lomond.  An  un- 
looked-for summons  like  this  has  sometimes  the  power 
of  turning  the  heads  of  the  heirs  so  suddenly  ennobled, 
but  it  did  anything  but  convey  elation  to  John's  mind 
in  the  prospect  of  its  effect  upon  his  relations.  Would 
she  see  reason  now?  Would  she  be  brought  to  allow 
that  something  must  be  done,  or  would  she  remain  ob- 
durate to  the  end  of  the  chapter  ?  A  great  impatience 
with  Elinor  filled  John's  mind.  She  was,  as  the  reader 
knows,  the  only  woman  to  John  Tatham  ;  but  what 
does  that  matter  ?  He  did  not  approve  of  her  any  more 
on  that  account.  He  was  even  more  conscious  of  the 
faults  of  which  she  was  guilty.  He  was  aware  of  her 
obstinacy,  her  determined  adherence  lo  her  own  way 
as  no  other  man  in  the  world  was.  Would  she  acknowl- 
edge now  at  last  that  she  was  wrong,  and  give  in  ?  I 
am  obliged  to  confess  that  the  giving  in  of  Elinor  was 
the  last  spectacle  in  heaven  or  earth  which  John  Tat- 
ham could  conceive. 

Ho  went  over  those  circumstances  as  he  drove  through 
all  of  London  that  is  to  some  people  worth  calling  Lon- 
don, on  that  dark  January  night,  passing  from  the  light 
of  the  busy  streets  into  the  comparative  darkness  of 
those  in  whicn  people  live,  without  in  the  least  remark- 
ing where  he  was  going,  except  in  his  thoughts.  He 
had  not  the  least  intention  of  accepting  the  invitation 
of  Lady  Mariamne,  nor  did  his  mind  dwell  upon  her  or 
the  change  that  ag»  : -ought  in  her.  But  yet  the 

Compton  family  had  gained  an  interest  in  John's  eyes 
which  it  did  not  possess  even  at  the  time  when  Elinor's 


THK  MARRIAGE   Of   KUXOK.  337 

marriage  first  brought  its  name  into  his  thoughts. 
Philip — young  Philip — the  boy,  as  John  called  him  in 
his  own  mind,  in  fond  identification — was  as  near  John's 
own  child  as  anything  ever  could  be  in  this  world.  He 
had  many  nephews  and  nieces  belonging  to  him  by  a 
more  authentic  title,  but  none  of  these  was  in  the  least 
like  Philip,  whom  none  of  all  the  kindred  knew  but  him- 
self, and  who,  so  far  as  he  was  aware,  had  but  one  kins- 
man in  the  world,  who  was  Uncle  John.  He  had  fol- 
lowed the  development  of  the  boy's  mind  always  with 
a  reference  to  those  facts  of  which  Philip  knew  nothing, 
which  would  be  so  wonderful  to  him  when  the  revela- 
tion came.  To  John  that  little  world  at  Lakeside — where 
the  ladies  had  made  an  artificial  existence  for  themselves, 
which  was  at  the  same  time  so  natural,  so  sweet,  so  full 
of  all  the  humanities  and  charities — was  something  like 
what  we  might  suppose  this  erring  world  to  be  to  some 
archangel  great  enough  to  see  how  everything  is,  not 
great  enough  to  give  the  impulse  that  would  put  it 
right.  If  the  great  celestial  intelligences  are  allowed 
to  know  and  mark  out  perverse  human  ways,  how  much 
impatience  with  us  must  mingle  with  their  tenderness 
and  pity  !  John  Tatham  had  little  perhaps  that  was 
heavenly  about  him,  but  he  loved  Elinor  and  her  son, 
and  was  absolutely  free  of  selfishness  in  respect  to  them. 
Never,  he  was  aware,  could  either  woman  or  child  be 
more  to  him  than  they  were  now.  Nay,  they  were  every- 
thing to  him,  but  on  their  own  account,  not  his  ;  he 
desired  their  welfare  absolutely,  and  not  his  own  through 
them.  Elinor  was  capable  at  any  moment  of  turning 
upon  him,  of  saying,  if  not  in  words,  yet  in  undeniable 
inference,  what  is  it  to  you  ?  and  the  boy,  though  he 
gladly  referred  to  Uncle  John  when  Uncle  John  was  in 
the  way,  took  him  with  perfect  composure  as  a  being 
apart  from  his  life.  They  were  everything  to  him,  but 
he  was  nothing  to  them. "  His  whole  heart  was  set  upon 
their  peace,  upon  their  comfort  and  well-being,  but  as 
much  apart  from  himself  as  if  he  had  not  been. 

Mr.  Tatham   was  dining  out  that  night,  which  was  a 
good  thing  for  him  to  distract  his  thoughts  from  this 

22 


338  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

problem,  which  he  could  only  torment  himself  about 
and  could  not  solve  ;  and  there  was  an  evening  party  at 
the  same  house — one  of  those  quieter,  less-frequented 
parties  which  are,  people  in  London  tell  you,  so  much 
more  agreeable  than  in  the  crowd  of  the  season.  It  was 
a  curious  kind  of  coincidence  that  at  this  little  assembly, 
which  might  have  been  thought  not  at  all  in  her  way, 
he  met  Lady  Mariamne,  accompanied  by  her  daughter, 
again.  It  was  not  in  her  way,  being  a  judge's  house, 
where  frivolity,  though  it  had  a  certain  place,  was  not 
the  first  element.  But  then  when  there  are  few  things 
to  choose  from,  people  must  not  be  too  particular,  and 
those  who  cannot  have  society  absolutely  of  their  own 
choosing,  are  bound,  as  in  other  cases  of  necessity,  to 
take  what  they  can  get.  And  then  Dolly  liked  to  hear 
people  talking  of  things  which  she  did  not  understand. 
When  Lady  Mariamne  saw  that  John  Tatham  was  there 
she  gave  a  little  shriek  of  satisfaction,  and  rushed  at  him 
as  if  they  had  been  the  dearest  friends  in  the  world. 
"  So  delighted  to  see  you  again"  she  cried,  giving  every- 
body around  the  idea  of  the  most  intimate  relationship. 
"It  was  the  most  wonderful  good  fortune  that  I  got 
my  Toto  home  in  safety,  poor  darling  ;  for  you  know, 
Mr.  Tatham,  you  would  not  give  him  any  tea,  and  Dolly, 
who  is  quite  unnatural,  pitched  him  into  the  carriage 
and  simply  sat  upon  him — sat  upon  him,  Mr.  Tatham ! 
before  I  could  interfere.  Oh,  you  do  not  know  half  the 
trials  a  woman  has  to  go  through  !  And  now  please 
take  me  to  have  some  coffee  or  something,  and  let  us 
finish  the  conversation  we  were  having  when  Dolly  made 
me  go  away." 

John  could  not  refuse  his  arm,  nor  his  services  in 
respect  to  the  coffee,  but  he  was  mute  on  the  subject 
on  which  his  companion  was  bent.  He  tried  to  divert 
her  attention  by  some  questions  on  the  subject  of  Dolly 
instead. 

"  Dolly !  oh,  yes,  she's  a  girl  of  the  period,  don't  you 
know — not  what  a  girl  of  the  period  used  to  be  in  our 
day,  Mr.  Tatham,  when  those  nasty  newspaper  people 
wrote  us  down.  Look  at  her  talking  to  those  two  men, 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  339 

and  laying  down  the  law.  Now,  we  never  laid  down  the 
law  ;  we  knew  beat  about  things  in  our  sphere — dress, 
and  the  drawing-room,  and  what  people  were  doing  in 
society.  But  Dolly  would  tell  you  how  to  manage  your 
next  great  case,  Mr.  Tatham,  or  she  could  give  one  of 
those  doctor-men  a  wrinkle  about  cutting  off  a  leg. 
Gracious,  I  should  have  fainted  only  to  hear  of  such  a 
thing  !  Tell  me,  are  those  doctor-men  supposed  to  be 
in  society  ?  "  Lady  Maviamne  cried,  putting  up  her  thin 
shoulder  (which  was  far  too  like  a  specimen  of  anatomy) 
in  the  direction  of  a  famous  physician  who  was  blandly  • 
smiling  upon  the  instruction  which  Miss  Dolly  assuredly 
intended  to  convey. 

"  As  much  as  lawyer-men  are  in  society,"  replied 
John. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Tatham,  such  nonsense!  Lawyers  have 
always  been  in  society.  What  are  the  Attorney  Gen- 
eral and  Lord  Chancellor  and  so  forth  ?  They  are  all 
Liwyers  ;  but  I  never  heard  of  a  doctor  that  was  in  the 
Cabinet,  which  makes  all  the  difference.  Here  is  a  quiet 
corner,  where  nobody  can  disturb  us.  Sit  down  ;  it 
will  be  for  all  the  world  like  sitting  out  a  dance  to- 
gether :  and  tell  me  about  Nell  and  her  boy." 

"And  what  if  I  have  nothing  to  tell?  "said  John, 
who  did  not  feel  at  all  like  sitting  out  a  dance;  but,  on 
the  contrary,  was  much  more  upright  and  perpendicular 
than  even  a  queen's  counsel  of  fifty  has  any  need  to  be. 

"Oh,  sit  down,  please  !  I  never  could  bear  a  man 
standing  over  me,  as  if  he  had  swallowed  a  poker.  Why 
did  she  go  off  and  leave  Phil  ?  Where  did  she  go  to  V 
I  told  you  I  went  off  on  my  own  hook  to  that  horrid 
place  where  they  lived,  and  knocked  up  the  old  clergy- 
man and  the  woman  who  wanted  me  to  put  on  a  shawl 
over  one  of  the  prettiest  gowns  I  ever  had.  Fancy,  the 
Vandal !  But  they  knew  nothing  at  all  of  her  there. 
Where  is  Nell,  Mr.  Tatham  ?  You  don't  pretend  not 
to  know.  And  the  boy  ?  Why  he  must  be  about  eigh- 
teen— and  if  St.  Serf  were  to  die Mr.  Tatham, 

you  know  it  is  quite,  quite  intolerable,  and  not  to  be 
borne  !     I  don't  know  what  steps  Phil  has  taken.     He 


THE  MAniilAGK   Of'1   KL1NOR. 

has  })eon  awfully  good — he  has  never  said  a  word.  To 
hear  him  you  would  thiuk  she  was  far  too  nice  to  be 
mixed  up  with  a  set  of  people  like  us.  But  now,  you 
know,  he  must  be  got  hold  of — he  must,  he  must !  Why, 
he'd  be  Lomond  if  St.  Serf  were  to  die  !  and  everybody 
would  be  crying  out,  '  Where's  the  heir  ?  '  After  Phil 
there's  the  Bagley  Comptons,  and  they  would  set  up 
for  being  heirs  presumptive,  unless  you  can  produce 
that  boy." 

"But  the  boy  is  not  mine  that  I  should  produce  him," 
said  John. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Tatham  !  when  Nell  is  your  relation,  and 
always,  always  was  advised  by  you.  You  may  tell  that 
to  the  Marines,  or  anybody  that  will  believe  it.  You 
need  not  think  you  can  take  me  in." 

"  I  hope  not  to  take  in  anybody.  If  being  advised  by 
me  means  persistently  declining  to  do  what  I  suggest 
and  recommend " 

"  Oh,  then,  you  are  of  the  same  opinion  as  I  am !  " 
said  Lady  Mariamne.  "  Bravo  !  now  we  shall  manage 
something.  If  you  had  been  like  that  years  ago  when 
I  used  to  go  to  you,  don't  you  remember,  to  beg  you  to 
smooth  things  down — but  you  would  never  see  it,  till 
the  smash  came." 

"  I  wish,"  said  John,  not  without  a  little  bitterness, 
•'  that  I  could  persuade  you  how  little  influence  I  have. 
There  are  some  women,  I  suppose,  who  take  advice 
when  it  is  given  to  them  ;  but  the  women  whom  I  have 
ever  had  anything  to  do  with,  I  am  sorry  to  say 

"I'll  promise,"  cried  Lady  Mariamne,  putting  her 
hands  and  rings  together  in  an  attitude  of  supplication, 
"  to  do  what  you  tell  me  faithfully,  if  you'll  advise  me 
where  I'll  find  the  boy.  Oh,  let  Nell  alone,  if  you  want 
to  keep  her  to  yourself — I  sha'n't  spoil  sport,  Mr.  Tat- 
ham, I  promise  you,"  she  cried,  with  hrr  shrill  laugh  ; 
"only  tell  me  where  I'll  find  the  boy.  What  is  it  you 
want,  Dolly,  coming  after  me  like  a  policeman  ?  Don't 
you  see  I  am  busy  ?  We  are  sitting  out  the  dance,  Mr. 
Tatham  and  I.  " 

Dolly  did  not  join  in  her  mother's  laugh  nor  unbend 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  EL] NOR.  341 

in  the  least.  "As  there  is  no  dancing,"  she  said,  "and 
everybody  is  going,  I  thought  you  would  prefer  to  go 
too." 

"But  we  shall  see  you  to-morrow,  Mr.  Tatham? 
Now,  I  cannot  take  any  refusal.  You  must  come,  if  it 
were  only  for  Toto's  sake  ;  and  Dolly  will  go  out,  I 
hope,  on  one  of  her  great  works  and  will  not  come  to 
disturb  us,  just  when  I  have  persuaded  you  to  speak — 
for  you  were  just  going  to  open  your  mouth.  Now 
you  know  you  were !  Five  o'clock  to-morrow,  Mr. 
Tatham,  whatever  happens.  Now  remember  !  and  you 
are  to  tell  me  everything."  She  held  up  her  finger  to 
him,  half  threatening,  half  coaxing,  and  then,  with  a 
peal  of  laughter,  yielded  to  Dolly,  and  was  taken 
away. 

"  I  did  not  know,  Tatham,"  said  the  Judge  who  was 
his  host,  "  that  you  were  on  terms  of  such  friendship 
Avith  Lady  Mariamne." 

"Nor  did  I,"  said  John  Tatham,  with  a  yawn. 

"  Queer  thing  this  is  about  that  old  business,  in 
which  her  brother  was  mixed  up — haven't  you  heard  ? 
one  of  those  companies  that  came  to  smash  somewhere 
about  twenty  years  ago.  The  manager  absconded,  and 
there  was  something  queer  about  the  books.  Well, 
the  fellow,  the  manager,  has  been  caught  at  last,  and 
there  will  be  a  trial.  It's  in  your  way — you  will  be  of- 
fered a  brief,  no  doubt,  with  refreshers  every  day,  you 
lucky  fellow.  I  have  just  as  much  troiible  and  no  re- 
freshers. What  a  fool  a  man  is,  Tatham,  ever  to 
change  the  Bar  for  the  Bench  !  Don't  you  do  it,  my 
dear  fellow — take  a  man's  advice  who  knows." 

"  At  least  I  shall  wait  till  I  am  asked,"  said  John. 

"  Oh,  you  will  be  asked  sooner  or  later — but  don't 
do  it — take  example  by  those  who  have  gone  before 
you,"  said  the  great  functionary,  shaking  his  learned 
head. 

And  the  Judge's  wife  had  also  a  word  to  say.  "  Mr. 
Tatham,"  she  said,  as  he  took  his  leave,  "I  know  now 
what  I  have  to  do  when  I  want  to  secure  Lady  Mari- 
amne— I  shall  ask  you." 


342  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR, 

"Do  you  ofteu  want  to  secure  Lady  Mariamne?' 
said  John. 

"  Oh,  it  is  all  very  well  to  look  as  if  you  didn't  care ! 
She  is,  perhaps,  a  little  passee,  but  still  a  great  many 
people  think  her  charming.  Isn't  there  a  family  con 
nection?"  Lady  Wigsby  said,  with  a  curiosity  which 
she  tried  not  to  make  too  apparent,  for  she  was  ac- 
quainted with  the  ways  of  the  profession,  and  knew 
that  was  the  last  thing  likely  to  procure  her  the  infor- 
mation she  sought. 

"It  cannot  be  called  a  connection.  There  was  a 
marriage — which  turned  out  badly." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Tatham,  if  the  question 
was  indiscreet !  I  hear  Lord  St.  Serf  is  worse  again, 
and  not  likely  to  last  long ;  and  there  is  some  strange 
story  about  a  lost  heir." 

"Good-night,  Lady  Wigsby,"  John  replied. 

And  he  added,  "Confound  Lord  St.  Serf,"  under  his 
breath,  as  he  went  down-stairs. 

But  it  was  not  Lord  St.  Serf,  poor  man,  who  had 
done  him  no  harm,  whom  John  wished  to  be  confound- 
ed because  at  last,  after  many  threaten  ings,  he  was 
about  to  be  so  ill-advised  as  to  die.  It  was  some  one 
very  different.  It  was  the  woman  who  for  much  more 
than  twenty  years  had  been  the  chief  object  of  John 
Tatham's  thoughts. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

THINGS  relapsed  into  quietness  for  some  time  after 
that  combination  which  seemed  to  be  directed  against 
John's  peace  of  mind.  If  I  said  that  it  is  not  unusual 
for  the  current  of  events  to  run  very  quietly  before  a 
great  crisis,  I  should  not  be  saying  anything  original, 
since  the  torrent's  calmness  ere  it  dash  below  has 
been  remarked  before  now.  But  it  certainly  was  so  in 
this  instance.  John,  I  need  scarcely  say,  did  not  pre- 
sent himself  at  Lacl_)  Mariamne's  on  the  afternoon  at 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  343 

five  when  he  was  expected.  He  wrote  a  very  civil  note 
to  say  that  he  was  unable  to  come,  and  still  less  able  to 
give  the  information  her  ladyship  required ;  and,  to  tell 
the  truth,  in  his  alarm  lest  Lady  Mariamne  should  re- 
peat her  invasion,  Mr.  Tatham  was  guilty  of  concerting 
with  his  clerk,  the  excellent  Simmons,  various  means 
of  eluding  such  a  danger.  And  he  exercised  the  great- 
est circumspection  in  regard  to  his  own  invitations,  and 
went  nowhere  where  there  was  the  least  danger  of 
meeting  her.  In  this  way  for  a  few  months  he  had 
kept  himself  safe. 

It  may  be  imagined,  then,  how  great  was  his  annoy- 
ance when  Simmons  came  in  again,  very  diffident, 
coughing  behind  his  hand,  and  taking  shelter  in  the 
shaded  part  of  the  room,  with  the  hesitating  statement 
that  a  lady — who  would  take  no  denial,  who  looked  as  if 
she  knew  the  chambers  as  well  as  he  did,  and  could 
hardly  be  kept  from  walking  straight  in — was  waiting 
to  see  Mr.  Tatham.  John  sprang  to  his  feet  with 
words  which  were  not  benedictions.  "  I  thought,"  he 
-said,  "  you  ass,  that  you  knew  exactly  what  to  say." 

"  But,  sir,"  said  Simmons,  "  it  is  not  the  same  lady — 
it  is  not  at  all  the  same  lady.  It  is  a  lady  who " 

But  here  the  question  was  summarily  settled,  for  the 
door  was  pushed  open  though  Simmons  still  held  it 
with  his  hand,  and  a  voice,  which  was  more  like  the 
voice  of  Elinor  Dennistoun  at  eighteen  than  that  of 
Mrs.  Compton,  said  quickly,  "  I  know,  John,  that  your 
door  can't  be  shut  for  me." 

"Elinor  !  "  he  said,  getting  up  from  his  chair. 

"  I  know,"  she  repeated,  "  that  there  must  be  some 
mistake — that  your  door  could  not  be  shut  for  me." 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  he  said.  "  It  is  all  right,  Sim- 
mons ;  but  who  could  have  thought  of  seeing  you 
here?  It  was  a  contingency  I  never  anticipated. 
When  did  you  come?  where  are  you  staying?  Is  Philip 
with  you  ?  "  He  overwhelmed  her  with  questions,  per- 
haps by  way  of  stopping  her  mouth  lest  she  should  put 
questions  still  more  difficult  to  answer  to  himself. 

"  Let  me  take  breath  a  little,"  she  said.     "  I  scarcely 


-'544  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

have  taken  breath  since  the — thing  happened  which 
has  brought  me  here  ;  but  I  feel  a  little  confidence  now 
with  the  strong  backing  I  have  in  you,  John." 

"  My  dear  Elinor,"  he  said,  "  I  am  afraid  you  must 
not  look  for  any  strong  backing  in  me." 

"  Why?"  she  cried.  "Have  you  judged  it  all  before- 
hand ?  And  do  you  know — are  you  quite,  quite  sure, 
John,  that  I  cannot  avoid  it  in  any  way,  that  I  am 
obliged  at  all  costs  to  appear?  I  would  rather  fly  the 
country,  I  would  rather  leave  Lakeside  altogether  and 
settle  abroad.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  that  I 
would  not  rather  do." 

"  Elinor,"  said  John,  with  some  sternness,  "  you  can- 
not believe  that  I  would  oppose  you  in  any  possible 
thing.  Your  pleasure  has  been  a  law  to  me.  I  may 
have  differed  with  you,  but  I  have  never  made  any  dif- 
ference." 

"John  !  you  do  not  mean  to  say,"  she  cried,  turning 
pale,  "  that  you  are  going  to  abandon  me  now  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  that  is  merely  a  figure  of  speech,"  he 
said.  "  How  could  I  abandon  you  ?  But  it  is  quite 
true  what  that  woman  says,  and  I  entirely  agree  with 
her  and  not  with  you  in  this  respect,  that  the  heir  to  a 
peerage  cannot  be  hid ' 

"  The  heir  to  a  peerage  !  "  she  faltered,  looking  at 
him  astonished.  Gradually  a  sort  of  slowly  growing 
light  seemed  to  diffuse  itself  over  her  face.  "  The  heir 
to  a  peerage,  John  !  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"  Is  this  not  your  reason  for  coming  to  town  ?  " 

"  There  is  nothing — that  I  know  of — about  the  heir 
to  a  peerage.  Who  is  this  heir  to  a  peerage  ?  I  don't 
know  what  you  mean,  but  you  frighten  me.  Is  that  a 
reason  why  I  should  be  dragged  out  of  my  seclusion 
and  made  to  appear  in  his  defence  ?  Oh,  no — surely 
no  ;  if  he  is  that,  they  will  let  him  off.  They  will  not 
press  it.  I  shall  not  be  wanted.  John,  the  more  rea- 
son that  you  should  stand  by  me " 

"We  are  at  cross-purposes,  Elinor.  What  has 
brought  you  to  London  ?  Let  me  know  on  your  side 
and  then  I  shall  understand  what  I  have  got  to  do." 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  345 

"  TJiat  has  brought  me  to  London."  She  handed 
him  a  piece  of  paper  which  John  knew  very  well  the 
appearance  of.  He  understood  it  better  than  she  did, 
and  he  was  not  afraid  of  it,  which  she  was,  but  he 
opened  it  all  the  same  with  a  great  deal  of  surprise. 
It  was  a  subpoena  charging  Elinor  Compton  to  appear 
and  bear  testimony — in  the  case  of  the  Qit?fn  versus 
Bran- n. 

"The  fjiwti  versus  Brown!  What  have  you  got  to 
do  witli  such  a  case  ?  You,  Elinor,  of  all  people  in  the 
world  !  Oh  !"  he  said  suddenly  as  a  light,  but  a  dim 
one,  began  to  break  upon  him.  It  was  the  case  of  which 
his  friend  the  judge  had  spoken,  and  in  which  he  had 
been  offered  a  retainer,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  shortly  after 
that  talk.  He  had  been  obliged  to  refuse,  his  time  be- 
ing already  fully  taken  up,  and  he  had  not  looked  into 
the  case.  But  now  it  began  slowly  to  dawn  upon  him 
that,  the  trial  was  that  of  the  once  absconded  manager 
of  a  certain  joint-stock  company,  and  that  this  was  pre- 
cisely the  company  in  which  Elinor's  money  had  been 
all  but  invested  by  her  husband.  It  might  be  upon 
that  subject  that  she  had  to  appear. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  can  imagine  a  possible  reason 
why  you  should  be  called,  and  yet  not  a  good  one  ;  for 
it  was  not  of  course  you  who  were  acting,  but  your — 
husband  for  you.  It  is  he  that  should  appear,  and  not 
you." 

"Oh,  John,"  she  cried.  "Oh,  John  !  "  wringing  her 
hands.  She  had  followed  his  looks  eagerly,  noticing 
the  light  that  seemed  to  dawn  over  his  face  with  a 
strange  anxiety  and  keen  interest.  But  John,  it  was 
evident,  had  not  got  the  clue  which  she  expected,  and 
her  face  changed  into  impatience,  disappointment,  ex- 
asperation. "  You  have  not  heard  anything  about  it," 
she  said  ;  "  you  don't  know." 

"It  was  brought  to  me,"  he  said,  "but  I  could  not 
take  it  up — no,  I  don't  know — except  that  it's  curious 
from  the  lapse  of  time — twenty  years  or  thereabouts  : 
that's  all  I  know.'1 

"The  question  is,"  she  said,  "about  a  date.     There 


346  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

were  some  books  destroyed,  and  it  is  not  known  who 
did  it.  Suspicion  fell  upon  one — who  might  have  been 
guilty  :  but  that  on  that  day — he  arrived  at  the  house 
of  the  girl — whom  he  was  going  to  marry  :  and  conse- 
quently could  not  have  been  there 

"  Elinor !  " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "that  is  what  I  am  wanted  for,  John, 
an  excellent  reason  after  all  these  years.  I  must  ap- 
pear to — clear  my  husband :  and  that  is  how  Pippo 
will  find  out  that  I  have  a  husband  and  he  a  father. 
Oh,  John,  John  !  support  me  with  your  approval,  and 
help  me,  oh,  help  me  to  go  away." 

"  Good  gracious  !  "  was  all  that  John  could  say. 

"  I  should  have  gone  first  and  asked  you  after,"  she 
cried,  "  for  you  are  a  lawyer,  and  I  suppose  you  will 
think  you  must  not  advise  any  one  to  fly  in  the  face  of 
the  law.  And  I  don't  even  know  whether  it  will  be  of 
any  use  to  fly.  Will  they  have  it  in  the  papers  all 
the  same  ?  Will  they  put  it  in  that  his  wife  re- 
fused to  appear  on  his  behalf,  that  she  had  gone  away 
to  avoid  the  summons  ?  Will  it  be  all  there  for  Pippo 
to  guess  and  wonder  at  the  name  and  come  to  me  with 
questions,  mother,  who  is  this  ?  and  mother,  what  is 
that?  John,  can't  you  answer  me,  you  that  I  came  to 
to  guide  me,  to  tell  me  what  I  must  do  ;  have  you  noth- 
ing, nothing  to  say  ?  " 

"I  am  too  much  bewildered  to  know  what  I  ana  do- 
ing, Elinor.  This  is  all  sprung  upon  me  like  a  mine  : 
and  there  was  plenty  before." 

"  There  was  nothing  before,"  she  cried,  indignantly, 
"  it  was  all  plain  sailing  before.  He  knew  nothing  of 
family  troubles — how  should  he,  poor  child,  being  so 
young  ?  That  was  simple  enough.  And  I  think  I  see ' 
a  way  still,  John.  I  will  take  him  off  at  Easter  for  a 
trip  abroad,  and  when  we  have  started  to  go  to  Switzer- 
land or  somewhere,  I  will  change  my  mind,  and  make 
him  think  of  Greece  or  somewhere  far,  far  away — the 
East  whore  there  will  be  no  newspapers.  Tell  me  when 
the  trial  will  come  on,  and  how  long  you  think  it  will 
last,  and  I  will  keep  him  away  till  it  is  all  over.  John  ! 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  347 

you  have  nothing  surely  to  say  against  that  ?  Think 
from  how  much  it  will  save  the  boy." 

"It  is  impossible,  Elinor,  that  the  boy  can  be  saved. 
I  never  knew  of  this  complication,  but  there  are  other 
circumstances,  of  which  I  have  lately  heard." 

"  What  can  any  other  circumstances  have  to  do  with 
it.  John,  even  if  he  must  hear?  I  know,  I  know,  you 
have  always  been  determined  upon  that.  Is  that  the 
way  you  would  have  him  hear,  not  only  that  he  has  a 
father,  but  that  his  father  was  involved  in — in  transac- 
tions like  that  befoi^e  ever  he  was  born?  " 

"Elinor,  let  us  understand  each  other,"  said  Mr. 
Tatham.  "  You  mean  that  you  have  it  in  your  power 
to  exonerate  your  husband,  and  he  has  had  you  subpoe- 
naed, knowing  this?  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  look  which  he  could  not 
fathom.  Was  it  reluctance  to  save  Phil  Comptou  that 
was  in  Elinor's  eyes  ?  Was  she  ready  to  leave  her  hus- 
band to  destruction  when  she  could  prevent  it,  in  order 
to  save  her  boy  from  the  knowledge  of  his  existence  ? 
John  Tatham  was  horrified  by  the  look  she  fixed  upon 
him,  though  he  could  not  read  it.  He  thought  he 
could  read  it,  and  read  it  that  way,  in  the  way  of  hate 
and  deliberate  preference  of  her  own  will  to  all  law  and 
justice.  There  could  be  no  such  tremendous  testimony 
to  the  power  of  that  long  continued,  absolutely-faithful, 
visionary  love  which  John  Tatham  bore  to  Elinor  than 
that  this  discovery  which  he  thought  he  had  made  did 
not  destroy  it.  He  was  greatly  shocked,  but  it  made 
no  difference  in  his  feelings.  Perhaps  there  was  more 
of  the  brotherly  character  in  them  than  he  thought. 
For  a  moment  they  looked  at  each  other,  and  he 
thought  he  made  this  discovery — while  she  met  his 
eyes  with  that  look  which  she  did  not  know  was  inscru- 
table, which  she  feared  was  full  of  self-betrayal.  "I 
believe,"  she  said,  bending  her  head,  "  that  that  is 
what  he  thinks." 

"If  it  had  been  me,"  said  John  Tatham,  moved  out 
of  his  habitual  calm,  "I  would  rather  be  proved  guilty 
of  anything  than  owe  my  safety  to  such  an  expedient  as 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELTNOR. 

that.  Drag  in  a  woman  who  hat<;s  1110  to  prove  my  alibi 
as  if  she  loved  me!  By  Jove,  Elinor  !  you  women  have 
the  gift  of  drawing  out  everything  that's  worst  in  men." 

"It  seems  to  make  you  hate  me,  John,  which  I  don't 
think  I  have  deserved." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  don't  liate  you.  It's  a  consequence,  I 
suppose,  of  use  arid  wont.  It  makes  little  difference  to 
me " 

She  gave  him  another  look  which  he  did  not  under- 
stand— a  wistful  look,  appealing  to  something,  he  did 
not  know  what — to  his  ridiculous  partiality,  he  thought, 
and  that  stubborn  domestic  affection  to  which  it  was  of 
so  little  importance  what  she  did,  as  long  as  she  was 
Elinor  ;  and  then  she  said  with  a  woman's  soft,  endless 
pertinacity,  "  Then  you  think  I  may  go  ?  " 

He  sprang  from  his  seat  with  that  impatient  despair 
which  is  equally  characteristic  of  the  man.  "  Go  !  "  he 
said,  "  when  you  are  called  upon  by  law  to  vindicate  a 
man's  character,  and  that  man  your  husband  !  I  ought 
not  to  be  surprised  at  anything  with  my  experience, 
but,  Elinor,  you  take  away  my  breath." 

She  only  smiled,  giving  him  once  more  that  look  of 
appeal. 

"How  can  you  think  of  it?"  he  said.  "The  subpu'iia 
is  enough  to  keep  any  reasonable  being,  besides  the 
other  motive.  You  must  not  budge.  I  should  feel  my 
own  character  involved,  as  well  as  yours,  if  after  con- 
sulting me  on  the  subject  you  were  guilty  of  an  evasion 
after  all." 

"It  would  not  be  your  fault,  John." 

"  Elinor  !  you  are  mad — it  must  not  be  done,"  he 
cried.  "  Don't  defy  me,  I  am  capable  of  informing 
upon  you,  and  having  you  stopped — by  force — if  you 
do  not  give  this  idea  up." 

"By  force  !"  she  said,  with  her  nostril  dilating.  "I 
shall  go,  of  course,  if  I  am  threatened." 

"  Then  Philip  must  not  go.  Do  you  know  what  has 
happened  in  the  family  to  which  he  belongs,  and  must 
belong,  whether  yon  like  it  or  not?  Do  you  know — 
that  the  boy  may  be  Lord  Lomond  before  the  week  is 


THE   MARRIAGK   OF  ELINOR.  349 

out  ?  that  his  uncle  is  dying,  and  that  your  husband  is 
the  heir  ? " 

She  turned  round  upon  him  slowly,  fixing  her  eyes 
upon  his,  with  simple  astonishment  and  no  more  in  her 
look.  Her  mind,  so  absorbed  in  other  thoughts,  hardly 
took  in  what  he  could  mean. 

"  Have  you  not  heard  this,  Elinor?  " 

"But  there  is  Hal,"  she  said,  "Hal — the  other 
brother — who  comes  first." 

"  Hal  is  dead,  and  the  one  in  India  is  dead,  and  Lord 
St.  Serf  is  dying.  The  boy  is  the  heir.  You  must  not, 
you  cannot,  take  him  away.  It  is  impossible,  Elinor,  it 
is  against  all  nature  and  justice.  You  have  had  him 
for  all  these  years  ;  his  father  has  a  right  to  his  heir." 

"  Oh,  John  !  "  she  cried,  in  a  bitter  note  of  reproach, 
"  oh,  John,  John  !  " 

"  Well,"  he  cried,  "is  not  what  I  tell  you  the  truth  ? 
Would  Philip  give  it  up  if  it  were  offered  to  him  ?  He 
is  almost  a  man — let  him  judge  for  himself." 

"  Oh,  John,  John  !  when  you  know  that  the  object 
of  my  life  has  been  to  keep  him  from  knowing — to 
shut  that  chapter  of  my  life  altogether  ;  to  biing  him 
up  apart  from  all  evil  influences,  from  all  instruc- 
tions  " 

"And  from  his  birthright,  Elinor  ?  " 

She  stopped,  giving  him  another  sudden  look,  the 
natural  language  of  a  woman  brought  to  bay.  She 
drew  a  long  breath  in  impatience  and  desperation,  not 
knowing  what' to  reply  ;  for  what  could  she  reply?  His 
birthright !  to  be  Lord  Lomond,  Lord  St.  Serf,  the 
head  of  the  house.  What  was  that  ?  Far,  far  better 
Philip  Deunistoun,  of  Lakeside,  the  heir  of  his  mother 
and  bis  grandmother,  two  stainless  women,  with 
enough  for  everything  that  was  honest  and  of  good  re- 
port, enough  to  permit  him  to  be  an  unworldly  scholar, 
a  lover  of  ari,  a  traveller,  any  play-profession  that  he 
chose  if  he  did  not  incline  to  graver  work.  Ah !  but 
she  had  not  been  so  wise  as  that,  she  had  not  brought 
him  up  as  Philip  Dennistoun.  He  was  Philip  Comp- 
ton,  she  had  not  been  bold  enough  to  change  his  name. 


350  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

She  stood  at  bay,  surrounded  as  it  were  by  her  ene- 
mies, and  confronted  John  Tatham,  who  had  been  her 
constant  companion  and  defender,  as  if  all  that  was 
hostile  to  her,  all  that  was  against  her  peace  was  em- 
bodied in  him. 

"I  must  go  a  little  further,  Elinor,"  said  John, 
"  though  God  knows  that  to  add  to  your  pain  is  the 
last  thing  in  the  world  I  wish.  You  have  been  left  un- 
molested for  a  very  long  time,  and  we  have  all  thought 
your  retreat  was  unknown.  I  confess  it  has  surprised 
ine,  for  my  experience  has  always  been  that  everything 
is  known.  But  you  have  been  subpoenaed  for  this  trial, 
therefore,  my  dear  girl,  we  must  give  up  that  idea. 
Everybody,  that  is  virtually  everybody,  all  that  are  of 
any  consequence,  know  where  you  are  and  all  you  are 
about  now." 

She  sank  into  a  chair,  still  keeping  her  eyes  upon 
him,  as  if  it  were  possible  that  he  might  take  some  ad- 
vantage of  her  if  she  withdrew  them  ;  then,  still  not 
knowing  what  to  reply,  seized  at  the  last  words  because 
they  were  the  last,  and  had  little  to  do  with  the  main 
issue.  "All  about  me?"  she  said  faintly,  as  if  there 
had  been  something  else  besides  the  place  of  her  refuge 
to  conceal. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,  Elinor.  The  moment  that 
your  home  is  known  all  is  known.  That  Philip  lives 
and  is  well,  a  promising  boy  ;  that  you  have  brought 
him  up  to  do  honour  to  any  title  or  any  position." 

He  could  not  help  saying  this,  and  partly  in  the  tes- 
timony to  her,  partly  for  love  of  the  boy,  John  Tat- 
harn's  voice  faltered  a  little  and  the  water  came  into  his 
eyes. 

"Ah,  John!  you  say  that!"  she  cried,  as  if  it  had 
been  an  admission  forced  from  him  against  his  will. 

"  What  could  I  say  otherwise  ?  Elinor,  because  I 
don't  approve  of  all  your  proceedings,  because  I  don't 
think  you  have  been  wise  in  one  respect,  is  that  to  say 
that  I  do  not  understand  and  know  you  ?  I  am  not 
such  a  fool  or  a  formalist  as  you  give  me  credit  for  be- 
ing. You  have  made  him  all  that  the  fondest  and 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELIXOR.  351 

proudest  could  desire.  You  have  done  far  better  for 

him,  I  do  not  doubt  for  a  moment,  than But,  my 

dear  cousin,  my  dear  girl,  my  poor  Nellie " 

"Yes,  John?" 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  then  he  said,  "  Eight  is 
right,  and  .justice  is  justice  at  the  end  of  all." 


CHAPTER  XXXVH. 

WHEN*  Elinor  received  the  official  document  which 
had  so  extraordinary  an  effect  upon  her  life,  and  over- 
turned in  a  moment  all  the  fabric  of  domestic  quiet 
and  security  which  she  had  been  building  up  for  years, 
it  wus  outside  the  tranquil  Avails  of  the  house  at  Lake- 
side, in  the  garden  which  lay  between  it  and  the  high- 
road, opening  upon  that  not  very  much-frequented  road 
by  a  pair  of  somewhat  imposing  gates,  which  gave  the 
little  establishment  an  air  of  more  pretension  than  it 
really  possessed.  Some  fine  trees  shrouded  the  little 
avenue,  and  Elinor  was  standing  under  one  of  them, 
stooping  over  a  little  nest  of  primroses  at  its  roots,  from 
which  the  yellow  buds  were  peeping  forth,  when  she 
heard  behind  her  the  sound  of  a  vehicle  at  the  gates, 
and  the  quick  leap  to  the  ground  of  someone  who 
opened  them.  Then  there  was  a  pause  ;  the  carriage, 
whatever  it  was,  did  not  come  farther,  and  presently 
she  herself,  a  little  curious,  turned  round  to  see  a  man 
approaching  her,  whom  she  did  not  know.  A  dog-cart 
driven  by  another,  whose  face  she  recognized,  waited 
in  the  road  while  the  stranger  came  forward.  "  You 
are  Mrs.  Compton,  ma'am  ?  "  he  said.  A  swift  thrill  of 
alarm,  she  could  scarcely  tell  why,  ran  over  Elinor  from 
head  to  foot.  She  had  been  settled  for  nearly  eighteen 
years  at  Lakeside.  What  could  happen  to  frighten  her 
now '?  but  it  tingled  to  her  very  fingers'  ends.  And 
then  he  said  something  to  her  which  she  scarcely  un- 
derstood, but  which  sent  that  tingle  to  her  very  heart 
and  brain,  and  gave  her  the  suspicious  looking  blue 


TUB  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

paper  which  he  hold  in  his  hand.  It  all  passed  in  a 
moment  of  time  to  her  dazed  yet  excited  consciousness. 
The  early  primrose  which  she  had  gathered  had  not 
had  time  to  droop  in  her  grasp,  though  she  crushed  the 
stalk  unconsciously  in  her  fingers,  before  the  gates  were 
closed  again,  the  sound  of  the  departing  wheels  grow- 
ing faint  on  the  road,  and  she  herself  standing  like  one 
paralyzed  with  that  thing  in  her  hand.  A  subpoena  ! — 
what  was  a  subpcena  ?  She  knew  as  little,  perhaps  less, 
than  the  children  in  the  parish  school,  who  began  to 
troop  along  the  road  in  their  resounding  clogs  at  their 
dinner  hour.  The  sound  of  this  awoke  her  a  little  to  a 
frightened  sense  that  she  had  better  put  this  document 
out  of  sight,  at  least  until  she  could  manage  to  under- 
stand it.  And  then  she  sped  swiftly  away  past  the 
pretty  white  house  lying  in  the  sunshine,  with  all  its 
doors  and  windows  open,  to  the  little  wood  behind, 
where  it  would  be  possible  to  think  and  find  out  at  her 
leisure  what  this  was.  It  was  a  small  wood  and  a  pub- 
lic path  ran  through  it  ;  but  where  the  public  was  so 
limited  as  at  Lakeside  this  scarcely  impaired  the  pri- 
vacy of  the  inhabitants,  at  least  in  the  morning,  when 
everybody  in  the  parish  was  at  work.  Elinor  hurried 
past  the  house  that  her  mother  might  not  see  her,  and 
climbed  the  woody  hillock  to  a  spot  which  was  pecul- 
iarly her  own,  and  where  a  seat  had  been  placed  for 
her  special  use.  It  was  a  little  mount  of  vision  from 
which  she  could  look  out,  up  and  down,  at  the  long 
winding  line  of  the  lake  cleaving  the  green  slopes,  and 
away  to  the  rugged  and  solemn  peaks  among  which  lay, 
in  his  mountain  fastnesses,  Helvellyn,  with  his  hoary 
brethren  crowding  round  him.  Elinor  had  watched  the 
changes  of  many  a  north-country  day,  full  of  endless 
vicissitudes,  of  flying  clouds  and  gleams  of  sunshine, 
from  that  seat,  and  had  hoped  and  tried  to  believe  that 
nothing,  save  these  vicissitudes  of  nature,  would  ever 
again  disturb  her.  Had  she  really  believed  that  ?  Her 
heart  thumping  against  her  breast,  and  the  pulses  of  her 
brain  beating  loud  in  her  ears,  answered  "  No."  She 
had  never  believed  it — she  had  known,  notwithstanding 


TUK  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR. 

all  her  obstinacy,  and  indignant  opposition  to  all  who 
warned  her,  that  some  day  or  other  her  home  must  be 
broken  up,  and  the  storm  burst  upon  her.  But  even 
such  a  conviction,  desperately  fought  against  and  re- 
sisted, is  a  very  different  matter  from  the  awful  sense 

of  certainty  that  it  has  come,  now 

The  trees  were  thick  enough  to  conceal  her  from  any 
passer-by  on  the  path,  the  young  half-unfolded  foliage 
of  the  birches  fluttered  over  her  head,  while  a  solid  fir 
or  two  stood,  giim  guardians,  yet  catching  pathetic 
airs  from  every  passing  wind  to  soothe  her.  But  Eli- 
nor neither  heard  nor  saw  lake,  mountain,  nor  sun- 
shine, nor  spring  breezes,  but  only  the  bit  of  paper  in 
her  hand,  and  the  uncomprehended  words  she  had 
heard  when  it  was  given  to  her.  It  was  not  long,  how- 
ever, before  she  perceived  and  knew  exactly  what  it 
meant.  It  was  a  subpceua  in  the  case  of  "The  Queen 
*  Brown,"  to  attend  and  give  evidence  on  a  certain 
dny  in  May.  in  London.  It  was  for  a  few  minutes  a 
mystery  to  her  as  great  as  it  was  alai'ming,  notwith- 
standing the  swift  and  certain  mental  conviction  she 
had  that  it  concerned  infallibly  the  one  secret  and  mys- 
tery of  her  life.  But  as  she  sat  there  pondering,  those 
strange  strays  of  recollection  that  come  to  the  mind,  of 
things  unnoted,  yet  unconsciously  stored  by  memory, 
drew  gradually  about  her,  piecing  out  the  threads  of 
conviction.  She  remembered  to  have  heard  her  mother 
read,  among  the  many  scraps  which  Mrs.  Denuistoun 
loved  to  read  out  when  the  newspaper  arrived,  some- 
thing about  a  man  who  had  absconded,  whose  name 
was  Brown,  who  had  brought  ruin  on  many,  and  had  at 
length,  after  a  number  of  years,  ventured  back  to  Eng- 
land and  had  been  caught.  It  was  one  of  the  weak- 
nesses of  Mrs.  Denuistoun's  advancing  years  to  like 
these  bits  of  news,  though  there  might  be  little  interest 
in  them  to  so  quiet  a  household  ;  and  her  daughter 
was  wont  to  listen  with  a  very  vague  attention,  noting 
but  a  word  now  and  then,  answering  vaguely  the  lively 
remarks  )>er  mother  would  make  on  the  subjects.  In 
this  case  even  she  had  paid  no  attention  ;  and  yet,  the 

23 


354  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

moment  that  strong  keynote  had  been  struck,  which  vi- 
brated through  her  whole  being,  this  echo  suddenly 
woke  up  and  resounded  as  if  it  had  been  thundered  in 
her  ears — "  Brown  !  "  She  began  to  remember  bit  by 
bit — and  yet  what  had  she  to  do  with  Brown  ?  He  had 
not  defrauded  her  ;  she  had  never  seen  him  ;  she  knew 
nothing  about  his  delinquencies.  Then  there  came  an- 
other note  faintly  out  of  the  distance  of  the  years  :  her 
husband's  image,  I  need  not  say,  had  come  suddenly 
into  her  sight  with  the  first  burst  of  this  new  event. 
His  voice  seemed  to  be  in  the  air  saying  half-forgotten 
things.  What  had  he  to  do  with  this  man  ?  Oh,  she 
knew  very  •  well  there  was  something — something  ! 
which  she  would  have  given  her  life  not  to  recollect ; 
which  she  knew  in  another  moment  would  flash  com- 
pletely upon  her  as  she  tried  not  to  remember  it.  And 
then  suddenly  her  working  mind  caught  another  string 
which  was  not  that ;  which  was  a  relief  to  that  for 
the  moment.  Brown ! — who  was  it  that  had  talked 
of  Brown? — rand  the  books  that  were  destroyed — and 

the and  the day  that  Phil  Compton  arrived  at 

Windyhill  ? 

Elinor  rose  up  from  her  seat  with  a  gasp.  She  put 
her  arm  round  the  rough  stem  of  the  fir-tree  to  support 
herself,  but  it  shook  with  her  though  there  was  no 
wind,  only  the  softest  of  morning  airs.  She  saw  before 
her  a  scene  very  different  from  this — the  flowery  gar- 
den at  the  cottage  with  the  copse  and  the  sandy  road 
beyond,  and  the  man  whom  Phil  had  expected,  whom 
he  had  been  so  anxious  to  see — and  his  fingers  catching 
hers,  keeping  her  by  him,  and  the  questions  to  which 
she  had  replied.  Twenty  years  !  What  a  long  time  it 
is !  time  enough  for  a  boy  to  grow  into  almost  a  man 
who  had  not  been  born  or  thought  of — and  yet  what  a 
moment,  what  a  nothing  !  Her  mind  flashed  from  that 
scene  in  the  garden  to  the  little  hall  in  the  cottage,  the 
maid  stooping  down  fastening  the  bolt  of  the  door,  the 
calendar  hanging  on  the  wall  with  the  big  6  showing  so 
visible,  so  obtrusive,  forcing  itself  as  it  were  on  the 
notice  of  all.  "  Only  ten  days,  Nell !  "  And  the  maid's 


TUB  MARllIA'rE  OF  ELINOR.  355 

glance  upwards  of  shy  sympathy,  and  the  blank  of  Mrs. 
Dennistoun's  face,  and  his  look.  Oh,  that  look  of  his  ! 
which  was  true  and  yet  so  false  ;  which  meant  so  much 
besides,  and  yet  surely,  surely  meant  love  too  ! 

The  young  fir-tree  creaked  and  swayed  in  Elinor's 
grip.  She  unloosed  it  as  if  the  slim  thing  had  cried 
under  the  pressure,  and  sat  down  again.  She  had 
nothing  to  grasp  at,  nothing.  Oh,  her  life  had  not  been 
without  support  !  Her  mother — how  extraordinary  had 
been  her  good  fortune  to  have  her  mother  to  fall  back 
upon  when  she  was  shipwrecked  in  her  life — to  have  a 
home,  a  shelter,  a  perpetual  protector  and  champion, 
who,  whether  she  approved  or  disapproved,  would  for- 
sake her  never.  And  then  the  boy,  God  bless  him  ! 
who  might  quiver  like  the  little  fir  if  she  flung  herself 
upon  him,  but  who,  she  knew,  would  stand  as  true. 
Oh,  God  forbid,  God  forbid  that  he  should  ever  know  ! 
Oh,  God  help  her,  God  help  her  !  how  was  she  to  keep 
it  from  his  knowledge  ?  Elinor  flung  herself  down  upon 
the  mossy  knoll  in  her  despair  as  this  came  pouring  into 
her  mind  a  flood  of  horrible  light,  of  unimaginable 
bitterness.  He  must  not  know,  he  must  not  know  ;  and 
yet  how  was  it  to  be  kept  from  his  knowledge  ?  It  was 
a  public  thing  ;  it  could  not  be  hid.  It  would  be  in  all 
the  papers,  his  father's  name  :  and  the  boy  did  not 
know  he  had  a  father  living.  And  his  mother's  evi- 
dence on  behalf  of  her  husband  ;  and  the  boy  thought 
she  had  no  husband. 

This  was  what  had  been  said  to  her  again  and  again 
and  again.  Sometime  the  boy  must  know — and  she  had 
pushed  it  from  her  angrily,  indignantly  asking  why 
should  he  know?  though  in  the  bottom  of  her  own 
heart  she  too  was  aware  that  it  was  the  delusion  of  a 

fool,  and  that  the  time  must  come But  how  could 

she  ever  have  thought  that  it  would  come  like  this,  that 
the  boy  would  discover  his  father  through  the  summons 
of  his  mother  to  a  public  court  to  defend  her  husband 
from  a  criminal  accusation  ?  Oh,  life  that  pardons 
nothing  !  Oh,  severe,  unchanging  heaven  ! — that  this 
should  be  the  way  ! 


356  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

And  then  there  came  into  Elinor's  mind  wild  thoughts 
of  flight.  She  was  not  a  woman  whose  nature  it  was 
to  endure.  When  things  became  intolerable  to  her 
she  fled  from  them,  as  the  reader  knows  ;  escaped, 
shutting  her  ears  to  all  advice  and  her  heart  to  all 
thoughts  except  that  life  had  become  intolerable,  and 
that  she  could  bear  it  no  longer.  It  is  not  easy  to  hold 
the  balance  even  in  such  matters.  Had  Elinor  fulfilled 
what  would  appear  to  many  her  first  duty,  and  stood  by 
Phil  through  neglect,  ill-treatment,  and  misery,  as  she 
had  vowed,  for  better,  for  worse,  she  would  by  this 
time  have  been  not  only  a  wretched  but  a  deteriorated 
woman;  and  her  son  most  probably  would  have  been 
injured  both  in  his  moral  and  intellectual  being.  What 
she  had  done  was  not  the  abstract  duty  of  her  marriage 
vow,  but  it  had  been  better — had  it  not  been  better 
for  them  both  ?  In  such  a  question  who  is  to  be  the 
judge  ?  And  now  again  there  came  surging  up  into 
Elinor's  veins  the  impulse  of  flight.  To  take  the  boy 
and  fly.  She  could  take  him  where  he  wished  most  to 
go,  to  the  scenes  of  that  literature  and  history  of  which 
his  schoolboy  head  was  full,  to  the  happiest  ideal  wan- 
dering, his  mother  and  he,  two  companions  almost  bet- 
ter than  lovers.  How  his  eyes  would  brighten  at  the 
thought !  among  the  summer  seas,  the  golden  islands, 
the  ideal  countries — away  from  all  the  trouble  and 
cares,  all  the  burdens  of  the  past,  all  the  fears  of  the 
future  !  Why  should  she  be  held  by  that  villainous 
paper  and  obey  that  dreadful  summons?  Why  allow 
all  her  precautions,  all  the  fabric  of  her  life  to  fall  in  a 
moment  ?  Why  pour  upon  the  boy  the  horror  of  that 
revelation,  when  everything  she  had  done  and  planned 
all  his  life  had  been  to  keep  it  from  him  ?  In  the  sud- 
den energy  of  that  new  possibility  of  escape  Elinor  rose 
up  again  from  the  prostration  of  despair.  She  saw 
once  more  the  line  of  shining  water  at  her  feet  full  of 
heavenly  splendour,  the  mountain  tops  sunning  them- 
selves in  the  morning  light,  the  peace  and  the  beauty 
that  was  over  all.  And  there  was  nothing  needed  but 
along  journey,  which  would  be  delightful,  full  of  pleas- 


THE  XAKRIAO-E   OF  ELINOR.  357 

ure  and  refreshment,  to  secure  her  peace  to  her,  and  to 
SRTC  her  boy. 

When  she  had  calmed  herself  with  this  new  project, 
which,  the  moment  it  took  form  in  her  mind  seemed  of 
itself,  without  reference  to  the  cause,  the  moat  delight- 
ful project  in  the  world  and  full  of  pleasure — Elinor 
smoothed  back  her  hair,  put  her  garden  hat,  which  had 
got  a  little  out  of  order,  straight,  and  took  her  way 
again  towards  the  house.  Her  heart  had  already  es- 
caped from  the  shock  and  horror  and  was  beating 
softly,  exhausted  yet  refreshed,  in  her  bosom.  She 
felt  almost  like  a  child  who  had  sobbed  all  its  troubles 
out,  or  like  a  convalescent  recovering  from  a  brief  but 
violent  illness,  and  pathetically  happy  in  the  cessation 
of  pain.  She  went  along  quietly,  slowly,  by  the  wood- 
land path  among  the  trees  full  of  the  sweetness  of  the 
morning  which  seemed  to  have  come  back  to  her. 
Should  she  say  anything  about  it  to  her  mother,  or  only 
by  degrees  announce  to  her  the  plan  she  had  begun  to 
form  for  Pippo's  pleasure,  the  long  delightful  ramble 
•which  would  come  between  his  school-time  and  the 
university  ?  She  had  almost  decided  that  she  would  do 
this  when  she  went  into  the  house  ;  but  she  had  not 
been  half  an  hour  with  her  mother  when  her  intention 
became  untenable,  for  the  good  reason  that  she  had 
already  told  Mrs.  Dennistoun  of  the  new  incident. 
They  were  not  in  the  habit  of  keeping  secrets  from 
each  other,  and  in  that  case  there  is  nothing  in  the 
world  so  difficult.  It  requires  training  to  keep  one's 
affairs  to  one's  self  in  the  constant  presence  of  those 
who  are  our  neai'est  and  dearest.  Some  people  may  be 
capable  of  this  effort  of  self-control,  but  Elinor  was 
not.  She  had  showed  that  alarming  paper  to  her 
mother  with  a  partial  return  of  her  own  terror  at  the 
sight  of  it  before  she  knew.  And  I  need  not  say  that 
fur  a  short  time  Mrs.  Dennistoun  was  overwhelmed  by 
that  natural  horror  too. 

"  But,"  she  said,  "  what  do  you  know,  what  can  you 
tell  about  this  Mr.  Brown,  Elinor  ?  You  never  saw  him 
in  your  life." 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

"  I  think  I  know  what  it  means,"  said  Elinor,  with  a 
sudden  dark  glow  of  colour,  which  faded  instantly, 
leaving  her  quite  pale.  She  added  hurriedly,  "  There 
were  some  books  destroyed.  I  cannot  tell  you  the 
rights  of  the  story.  It  is  too  dreadful  altogether,  but 
— another  was  exculpated  by  the  date  of  the  day  he  ar- 
rived at  "Windyhill.  This  must  be  the  reason  I  am 
called." 

"The  date  he  arrived — before  your  marriage,  Elinor  ? 
But  then  they  might  call  me,  and  you  need  not  ap- 
pear." 

"  Not  for  the  world,  mother  !  "  cried  Elinor.  The 
colour  rose  again  and  faded.  "  Besides,  you  do  not  re- 
member." 

"Oh,  I  could  make  it  out,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun 
"  It  was  when  he  came  from  Scotland,  and  went  off  in 
the  evening  next  day.  I  don't  at  this  moment  remem- 
ber what  the  day  was,  but  I  could  make  it  out.  It  was 
about  a  fortnight  before,  it  was 

"  Do  you  remember,  mother,  the  little  calendar  in 
the  hall,  and  what  it  marked,  and  what  he  said  ?  " 

"  I  remember,  of  course,  perfectly  well  the  little  cal- 
endar in  the  hall.  You  gave  it  me  at  Christmas,  and  it 
was  always  out  of  order,  and  never  kept  right.  But  I 
could  make  it  out  without  that." 

"  You  must  not  think  of  it  for  a  moment,"  cried 
Elinor,  with  a  shudder.  There  had  been  so  many 
things  to  think  of  that  it  had  scarcely  occurred  to  her 
what  it  was  to  which  she  had  to  bear  witness.  She 
told  her  mother  hurriedly  the  story  of  that  incident, 
and  then  she  added,  without  stopping  to  take  breath. 
"  But  I  will  not  appear.  I  cannot  appear.  We  must 
keep  it  out  of  the  papers,  at  every  cost.  Mother,  do 
not  think  it  dreadful  of  me.  I  will  run  away  with 
Pippo  ;  far  away,  if  you  will  not  be  anxious.  This  is 
just  his  chance  between  school  and  college.  I  will  take 
him  to  GP 

"  To  Greece,  Elinor  ? "  Mrs.  Deunistoun  cried,  with 
almost  a  shriek. 

"Mother,  dear,  it  is  not  so  very  far  away." 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  359 

"I  am  not  thinking-  how  far  away  it  is,  Elinor.  Ami 
leave  his  father's  reputation  to  suffer?  Leave  him  per- 
haps to  be  ruined — by  a  false  charge  ?  " 

"Oh,  mother,"  cried  Elinor,  starting  to  her  feet. 
She  was  quite  unprepared  for  such  remonstrance. 

"  My  dear,  I  have  not  opposed  you ;  though  there 
have  been  many  things  I  have  scarcely  approved  of. 
But,  Elinor,  this  must  not  be.  Eun  away  from  the 
law  ?  Allow  another  to  suffer  when  you  can  clear  him  ? 
Elinor,  Elinor,  this  must  not  be — unless  I  can  go  and 
be  his  witness  in  your  place.  I  might  do  that,"  said 
Mrs.  Dennistoun,  seriously.  She  paused  a  moment, 
and  then  she  said,  "But  I  think  you  are  wrong  about 
the  sixth.  He  stayed  only  one  night,  and  the  night  he 
went  away  was  the  night  that  Alick  Hudson — who  was 
going  up  for  his  examination.  I  can  make  it  out  ex- 
actly, if  you  will  give  me  a  little  time  to  think  it  over. 
My  poor  child  !  that  you  should  have  this  to  disturb 
your  peace.  But  I  will  go,  Elinor.  I  can  clear  him  as 
well  as  you." 

Elinor  stood  up  before  her,  pallid  as  a  ghost.  "  For 
God's  sake,  mother,  not  another  word,"  she  said,  with 
a  dreadful  solemnity.  "  The  burden  is  mine,  and  I 
must  bear  it.  Let  us  not  say  a  word  more." 


CHAPTEK  XXXVIH. 

I  WILL  not  confuse  the  reader  with  a  description-  of 
all  Elinor's  thoughts  during  the  slow  progress  of  that 
afternoon  and  evening,  which  were  as  the  slow  passing 
of  a  year  to  her  impatient  spirit.  She  took  the  usual 
afternoon  walk  with  her  mother  soberly,  as  became 
Mrs.  Dennistoun's  increasing  years,  and  then  she  made 
a  pretext  of  some  errands  in  the  village  to  occupy  her 
until  dark,  or  rather  to  leave  her  free  to  twist  the 
thread  of  her  own  thoughts  as  she  went  along  the  silent 
country  road.  Her  thoughts  varied  in  the  afternoon 


360  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

from  those  which  had  seized  upon  her  with  such  vult- 
iire's  claws  in  the  morning  ;  but  they  were  not  less 
overwhelming  in  that  respect.  Her  mother's  sugges- 
tion that  she  and  not  Elinor  should  be  the  witness  of 
that  date,  and  then  her  ponderinga  as  to  that  date,  her 
slow  certainty  that  she  could  make  it  out,  or  puzzle  it 
out,  as  Elinor  in  her  impatience  said,  which  was  the 
last  of  all  things  to  be  desired — had  stung  the  daughter 
into  a  new  and  miserable  realization  of  what  it  was  that 
was  demanded  of  her,  which  nobody  could  do  but  she. 
What  was  it  that  would  be  demanded  of  her?  To 
stand  up  in  the  face  of  God  and  man  and  swear  to  toll 
the  truth,  and  tell — a  lie  :  or  else  let  the  man  who  had 
been  her  husband,  the  love  of  her  youth,  the  father  of 
her  boy,  sink  into  an  abyss  of  shame  She  thought 
rapidly,  knowing  nothing,  that  surely  there  could  be  no 
punishment  for  him,  even  if  it  were  proved,  at  the  long 
interval  of  twenty  years.  But,  shame — there  would  be 
slianie.  Nothing  could  save  him  from  that.  Shame 
which  would  descend  more  or  less  to  his  son.  And 
then  Elinor  reflected,  with  hot  moisture  coming  out 
upon  her  forehead  against  the  cold  breeze  of  the 
spring  night,  on  what  would  be  asked  of  her.  Oh,  no 
doubt,  it  would  be  cleverly  done  !  She  would  be 
asked  if  she  remembered  his  visit,  and  why  she  remem- 
bered it.  She  would  be  led  on  carefully  to  tell  the 
story  of  the  calendar  in  the  hall,  and  of  how  it  was  but 
ten  days  before  her  marriage — the  last  hurried,  unex- 
pected visit  of  the  lover  before  he  came  as  a  bridegroom 
to  take  her  away.  It  would  be  all  true,  every  word, 
and  yet  it  would  be  a  lie.  And  standing  up  there  in 
that  public  place,  she  would  be  made  to  rt-pcat  it,  as 
she  had  done  in  the  flowery  garden,  in  the  sunshine, 
twenty  years  ago — then  dazed  and  bewildered,  not 
knowing  what  she  did,  and  wifh  wmothing  of  the 
blind  confidence  of  youth  and  lovo  in  saying  what  she 
was  told  to  say  ;  but  now  with  clearer  insight,  with  a 
horrible  certainty  of  the  falsehood  of  that  (rue  story, 
and  the  object  with  which  it  was  required  of  her. 
Happily  for  herself,  Elinor  did  not  think  of  the  ordeal 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOK.  361 

of  cross-examination  through  which  witnesses  have  to 
pass.  She  would  not,  I  think,  have  feared  that  if  the 
instinct  of  combativeness  had  been  roused  in  her  : 
her  quick  wit  and  ready  spirit  would  not  have  failed  in 
defending  herself,  and  in  maintaining  the  accuracy 
of  the  fact  to  which  she  had  to  bear  witness.  It  was 
herself,  and  not  an  opposing  counsel,  that  was  alarm- 
ing to  Elinor.  But  I  have  promised  that  the  reader 
should  not  be  compelled  to  go  through  all  the  trouble 
and  torment  of  her  thoughts. 

Dinner,  with  the  respect  which  is  necessary  for  the 
servant  who  waits,  whether  that  may  be  a  solemn  but- 
ler with  his  myrmidons,  or  a  little  maid — always  makes 
a  pause  in  household  communications  ;  but  when  the 
ladies  were  established  afterwards  by  the  pleasant  fire- 
side which  had  been  their  centre  of  life  for  so  many 
years,  and  with  the  cheerful  lamp  on  the  table  between 
them  which  had  lighted  so  many  cheerful  talks,  read- 
ings, discussions,  and  consultations,  the  new  subject  of 
anxiety  and  interest  immediately  came  forth  again.  It 
was  Mrs.  Dennistoun  who  spoke  first.  She  had  grown 
older,  as  we  all  do  ;  she  wore  spectacles  as  she  worked, 
and  often  a.  white  shawl  on  her  shoulders,  and  was — as 
sometimes  her  daughter  felt,  with  shame  of  herself  to 
remark  it — a  little  slower  in  speech,  a  little  more  per- 
tinacious and  insistent,  not  perhaps  perceiving  with 
such  quick  sympathy  the  changes  and  fluctuations  of 
other  minds,  and  whether  it  was  advisable  or  not  to 
follow  a  subject  to  the  bitter  end.  She  said,  looking 
up  from  her  knitting,  with  a  little  rhetorical  movement 
of  her  hand  which  Elinor  feared,,  and  which  showed 
that  she  felt  herself  on  assured  and  certain  ground  : 

"  My  dear,  I  have  been  thinking  I  have  made  it 
out  day  by  day.  God  knows  there  were  plenty  of  land- 
marks in  it  to  keep  any  one  from  forgetting.  I  can 
now  make  out  certainly  the  day — of  which  we  were 
speaking  ;  and  if  you  will  give  me  your  attention  for  a 
minute  or  two,  Elinor,  you  will  see  that  whatever  the 
calendar  said — which  I  never  noticed,  for  it  was  as 
often  wrong  as  right — you  are  making  a  mis " 


362  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

"  Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake,  mother,"  cried  Elinor,  "  don't 
let  us  talk  of  that  any  more  !  " 

"I  have  no  desire  to  talk  of  it,  my  dear  child  ;  but 

for  what  you  said  I  should  never But  of  course  we 

must  take  some  action  about  this  thing — this  paper  you 
have  got.  And  it  seems  to  me  that  the  best  thing 
would  be  to  write  to  John,  and  see  whether  he  could 
not  manage  to  get  it  transferred  from  you  to  me.  I 
can't  see  what  difficulty  there  could  be  about  that." 

"  I  would  not  have  it  for  the  world,  mother  !  And 
what  good  would  it  do  ?  The  great  thing  in  it,  the 
dreadful  thing,  would  be  unchanged.  Whether  you 
appear  or  me,  Pippo  would  be  made  to  know,  all  the 
same,  what  it  has  been  our  joint  object  to  conceal  from 
him  all  his  life." 

Mrs.  Dennistoun  did  not  say  anything,  but  she  would 
not  have  been  mortal  if  she  had  not,  very  slightly,  but 
yet  very  visibly  to  keen  eyes,  shaken  her  head. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Elinor,  vehemently, 
"  that  it  has  been  I,  and  not  we,  whose  object  has  been 
to  conceal  it  from  him.  Oh,  yes,  I  know  yon  are  right  ; 
but  at  least  you  consented  to  it,  you  have  helped  in  it, 
it  is  your  doing  as  well  as  mine." 

"  Elinor,  Elinor ! "  cried  her  mother,  who,  having 
always  protested,  was  not  prepared  for  this  accusation. 

"Is  there  any  advantage  to  be  got,"  said  Elinor,  like 
an  injured  and  indignant  champion  of  the  right,  "  in 
opening  up  the  whole  question  over  again  now  ?  " 

What  could  poor  Mrs.  Dennistoun  do?  She  was 
confounded,  as  she  often  had  been  before,  by  those 
swift  and  sudden  tactics.  She  gave  a  glance  up  at  her 
daughter  over  her  spectacles,  but  she  said  nothing. 
Argument,  she  -knew  by  long  experience,  was  difficult 
to  keep  up  with  such  an  opponent. 

"But  John  is  an  idea,"  said  Elinor.  "I  don't  know 
why  I  should  not  have  thought  of  him.  He  may  sug- 
gest something  that  could  be  done." 

"  I  thought  of  him,  of  course,  at  once,"  said  Mrs. 
Deunistoun,  not  able  to  refrain  from  that  small  piece 
of  self-assertion.  "  It  is  not  a  time  that  it  would  be 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  363 

easy  for  him  to  leave  town ;  but  at  least  you  could 
write  and  lay  your  difficulties  before  him,  and  sug- 
gest  " 

"  Oh,  you  may  be  sure,   mother,"  cried  Elinor,  "  I 
know  what  I  have  to  say." 

"I  never  doubted  it,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Dennis- 
toun,  gently. 

And  then  there  was  a  little  pause.  They  sat  and 
worked,  the  elder  lady  stumbling  a  little  over  her  knit- 
ting, her  thoughts  being  so  much  engaged ;  the 
younger  one  plying  a  flying  needle,  the  passion  and 
impetus  of  her  thoughts  lending  only  additional  swift- 
ness and  vigour  to  everything  she  did.  And  for  ten 
minutes  or  more  there  was  nothing  to  be  heard  in  the 
room  but  the  little  drop  of  ashes  from  the  fire,  the  sud- 
den burst  of  a  little  gas-flame  from  the  coals,  the  rustle 
of  Elinor's  arm  as  it  moved.  The  cat  sat  with  her  tail 
curled  round  her  before  the  fire,  the  image  of  dignified 
repose,  winking  at  the  flames.  The  two  human  inhab- 
itants, save  for  the  movements  of  their  hands,  might 
have  been  in  wax,  they  were  so  still.  Suddenly,  how- 
ever, the  quietness  was  broken  by  an  energetic  move- 
ment. Elinor  threw  her  work  down  on  the  table  and 
rose  from  her  chair.  She  went  to  the  window  and 
drew  the  curtain  aside,  and  looked  out  upon  the  night. 
She  shut  it  carefully  again,  and  going  to  the  writing- 
table,  struck  a  match  and  lighted  the  candles  there, 
and  sat  down  and  began,  or  appeared  to  begin,  to 
write.  Then  she  rose  quickly  again  and  returned  to 
the  table  at  which  Mrs.  Dennistoun  was  still  seated, 
knitting  on,  but  watching  every  movement  of  her  rest- 
less companion.  "  Mother,"  she  said,  "  I  can't  write,  I 
have  far  too  much  to  say.  I  will  run  up  to  town  to- 
morrow myself  and  see  John." 

"  To  town,  Elinor,  by  yourself  ?  My  dear,  you  for- 
get it  is  not  an  hour's  journey,  as  it  was  to  "Windyhill." 

"  I  know  that  very  well,  mother.  But  even  the  jour- 
ney will  be  an  advantage.  The  movement  will  do  me 
good,  and  I  can  tell  John  much  better  than  I  could 
write.  Who  could  write  about  a  complicated  business 


TffS  MAKRIAG&  OF  ELINOR. 

like  this?  Ho  will  understand  me  when  he  sees  me  at 
half  a  word,  whereas  in  writing  one  can  never  explain. 
Don't  oppose  me,  please,  mother !  I  feel  that  to  do 
something,  to  get  myself  in  motion,  is  the  only  thing 
for  me  now." 

"I  will  not  oppose  you,  Elinor.  I  have  done  so, 
perhaps,  too  little,  my  dear  ;  but  we  will  not  speak  of 
that.  No  doubt,  as  you  say,  you  will  understand  each 
other  better  if  you  tell  him  the  circumstances  face  to 
face.  But,  oh,  my  dear  child,  do  nothing  rash  !  Be 
guided  by  John  ;  he  is  a  prudent  adviser.  The  only 
thing  is  that  he,  no  more  than  I,  has  ever  been  able  to 
resist  you,  Elinor,  if  you  had  set  your  heart  upon  any 
course.  Oh,  my  dear,  don't  go  to  John  with  a  fore- 
gone conclusion.  Hear  first  what  he  has  to  say !  " 

Elinor  came  behind  her  mother  with  one  of  those 
quick  returns  of  affectionate  impulse  which  were  nat- 
ural to  her,  and  put  her  arms  suddenly  round  Mrs. 
Dennistoun.  "  You  have  always  been  far  too  good  to 
me,  mamma,"  she  said,  kissing  her  tenderly,  "both 
John  and  you." 

And  next  morning  she  carried  out  her  swiftly  con- 
ceived intention  and  went  to  town,  as  the  reader  is 
aware.  A  long  railway  journey  is  sometimes  soothing 
to  one  distracted  with  agitation  and  trouble.  The 
quiet  and  the  noise,  which  serves  as  a  kind  of  accom- 
paniment, half  silencing,  half  promoting  too  active 
thought ;  the  forced  abstraction  and  silence,  and  semi- 
imprisonment  of  mind  and  body,  which  are  equally 
restless,  but  which  in  that  enclosure  are  bound  to 
self-restraint,  exercise,  in  spite  of  all  struggles  of  the 
subject,  a  subduing  effect.  And  it  was  a  strange  thing 
that  in  the  seclusion  of  the  railway  compartment  in 
which  she  travelled  alone  there  came  for  the  first  time 
to  Elinor  a  softening  thought,  the  sudden  sensation  of 
a  feeling,  of  which  she  had  not  been  sensible  for  years, 
towards  the  man  whose  name  she  bore.  It  occurred 
to  her  quite  suddenly,  she  could  not  tell  how,  as  if 
some  one  invisible  had  thrown  that  reflection  into  her 
mind  (and  I  confess  that  I  am  of  opinion  they  do  : 


THE  MARHIAUE   OF  ELINOR.  365 

those  who  are  around  us,  who  are  unseen,  darting  into 
our  souls  thoughts  which  do  not  originate  with  us, 
thoughts  not  always  of  good,  blasphemies  as-  well  as 
blessings) — it  occurred  to  her,  I  say,  coming  into  her 
mind  like  an  arrow,  that  after  all  she  had  not  been  so 
well  hidden  as  she  thought  all  these  years,  seeing  that 
she  had  been  found  at  ouce  without  difficulty,  it  ap- 
peared, when  she  was  wanted.  Did  this  mean  that  he 
had  known  where  she  was  all  the  time — known,  but 
never  made  any  attempt  to  disturb  her  quiet  ?  The 
thought  startled  her  very  much,  revealing  to  her  a 
momentary  glimpse  of  something  that  looked  like  mag- 
nanimity, like  consideration  and  generous  self-restraint. 
Could  these  things  be  ?  He  could  have  hurt  her  very 
much  had  he  pleased,  even  during  the  time  she  had 
remained  at  Wiudyhill,  when  certainly  he  knew  where 
she  was  :  and  he  had  not  done  so.  He  might  have 
taken  her  child  from  her  :  at  least  he  might  have  made 
her  life  miserable  with  fears  of  losing  her  child  :  and 
he  had  not  done  so.  If  indeed  it  was  true  that  he  had 
known  where  she  was  all  the  time  and  had  never  done 
anything  to  disturb  her,  what  did  that  mean  ?  This 
thought  gave  Elinor  perhaps  the  first  sense  of  self-re- 
proach aud  guilt  that  she  had  ever  known  towards  this 
man,  who  was  her  husband,  yet  whom  she  had  not  seen 
for  more  than  eighteen  years. 

Aud  then  there  was  another  thing.  After  that 
interval  he  was  not  afraid  to  put  himself  into  her 
hands — to  trust  to  her  loyalty  for  his  salvation.  He 
knew  that  she  could  betray  him — and  he  knew  equally 
.  well  that  she  would  not  do  so,  notwithstanding  the 
eighteen  years  of  estrangement  and  mutual  wrong  that 
lay  between.  It  did  not  matter  that  the  loyalty  he 
felt  sure  of  would  be  a  false  loyalty,  an  upholding  of 
what  was  not  true.  He  would  think  little  of  that,  as 
likely  as  not  he  had  forgotten  all  about  that.  He 
would  know  that  her  testimony  would  clear  him,  and 
lie  would  not  think  of  anything  else  ;  and  even  did  he 
think  of  it  the  fact  of  a  woman  making  a  little  mis- 
statement  like  that  would  never  have  affected  Philip. 


366  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

But  the  strange  thing  was  that  he  had  no  fear  she 
would  revenge  herself  by  standing  up  against  him — no 
doubt  of  her  response  to  his  appeal ;  he  was  as  ready 
to  put  his  fate  in  her  hands  as  if  she  had  been  the  most 
devoted  of  wives — his  constant  companion  and  cham- 
pion. This  had  the  most  curious  effect  upon  her  mind, 
almost  greater  than  the  other.  She  had  shown  no 
faith  in  him,  but  he  had  faith  in  her.  Reckless  and 
guilty  as  he  was,  he  had  not  doubted  her.  He  had  put 
it  in  her  power  to  convict  him  not  only  of  the  worst 
accusation  that  was  brought  against  him,  but  of  a 
monstrous  trick  to  prove  his  alibi,  and  a  cruel  wrong  to 
her  compelling  her  to  uphold  that  as  true.  She  A\  ;is 
able  to  expose  him,  if  she  chose,  as  no  one  else  could 
do  ;  but  he  had  not  been  afraid  of  that.  This  second 
thought,  which  burst  upon  Elinor  without  any  volition 
of  her  own,  had  the  most  curious  effect  upon  her. 
She  abstained  carefully,  anxiously,  from  allowing 
herself  to  be  drawn  into  making  any  conclusion 
from  these  darts  of  unintended  thoughts.  But  they 
moved  her  in  spite  of  herself.  They  made  her  think 
of  him,  which  she  had  for  a  long  time  abstained  from 
doing.  She  had  shut  her  heart  for  years  from  an}' 
recollection  of  her  husband,  trying  to  ignore  his  exist- 
ence in  thought  as  well  as  in  fact.  And  she  had  suc- 
ceeded for  a  long  time  in  doing  this.  But  now  in  a 
moment  all  her  precautions  were  thrown  to  the  winds. 
He  came  into  her  memory  with  a  sudden  rush  for 
which  she  was  no  way  responsible,  breaking  all  the 
barriers  she  had  put  up  against  him  :  that  he  should 
have  known  where  she  was  all  this  time,  and  never  dis- 
turbed her,  respected  her  solitude  all  these  years — that 
when  the  moment  of  need  came  he  should,  without  a 
word  to  conciliate  her,  without  an  explanation  or  an 

apology,  have  put  his  fate  into  her  hands To  the 

reader  who  understands  I  need  not  say  more  of  the 
effect  upon  the  mind  of  Elinor,  hasty,  generous,  im- 
patient as  she  was  of  these  two  strange  facts.  There 
are  nuiny  in  the  world  who  would  have  given  quite  a 
different  explanation — who  would  have  made  out  of 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELISOR.  367 

the  fact  that  he  had  not  disturbed  her  only  the  ex- 
planation that  Phil  Coinpton  was  tired  of  his  wife  and 
glad  to  get  rid  of  her  at  any  price :  and  who  would 
have  seen  in  his  appeal  to  her  now  only  audacity  com- 
bined with  the  conviction  that  she  would  not  coin- 
promise  herself  by  saying  anything  more  than .  she 
could  help  about  him.  I  need  not  say  which  of  these 
interpretations  would  have  been  the  true  one.  But  the 
first  will  understand  and  not  the  other  what  it  was  that 
for  the  first  time  for  eighteen  years  awakened  a  struggle 
and  controversy  which  she  could  not  ignore,  and  vainly 
endeavoured  to  overcome,  in  Elinor's  heart. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

ELINOR  had  not  been-  three  days  gone,  indeed  her 
mother  had  but  just  received  a  hurried  note  announc- 
ing her  arrival  in  London,  when  as  she  sat  alone  in  the 
hou.se  which  had  become  so  silent,  Mrs.  Dennistoun 
suddenly  became  aware  of  a  rising  of  sound  of  the  most 
jubilant,  almost  riotous  description.  It  began  by  the 
barking  of  Yarrow,  the  old  colley,  who  was  fond  of 
lying  at  the  gate  watching  in  a  philosophic  way  of  his 
own  the  mild  traffic  of  the  country  road,  the  children 
trooping  by  to  school,  who  hung  about  him  in  clusters, 
with  lavish  offerings  of  crust  and  scraps  of  biscuit,  and 
all  the  leisurely  country  fldiieurs  whom  the  good  dog 
despised,  not  thinking  that  he  himself  did  nothing  but 
fldner  at  his  own  door  in  the  sun.  A  bark  from  Yarrow 
was  no  small  thing  in  the  stillness  of  the  spring  after- 
noon, and  little  Urisk,  the  terrier,  who  lay  wrapt  in 
dreams  at  Mrs.  Denuistoun's  faet,  heard  where  he  lay 
entranced  in  the  folds  of  sleep  and  cocked  up  an  eager 
ear  and  uttered  a  subdued  interrogation  under  his 
breath.  The  next  thing  was  no  bark,  but  a  shriek  of 
joy  from  Yarrow,  such  as  could  mean  nothing  in  the 
world  but  "  Philip ! "  or  Pippo,  which  was  what  no 


THE  MAlilUAdK   Ob'  ELINOR. 

doubt  the  dogs  called  him  between  following  their 
mistress.  Urisk  heard  find  understood.  He  made  but 
one  spring  from  the  footstool  on  which  he  lay  and 
flung  himself  against  the  door.  Mrs.  Denuistoun  sat 
for  n  moment  and  listened,  much  disturbed.  "When 
some  troublous  incident  occurs  in  the  deep  quiet  of 
domestic  life  how  often  is  it  followed  by  another,  and 
her  heart  turned  a  little  sick.  She  was  not  comforted 
even  by  the  fact  that  Urisk  was  waggling  not  his  tail 
only,  but  his  whole  little  form  in  convulsions  of  joy, 
barking,  crying  aloud  for  the  door  to  open,  to  let  him 
forth.  By  this  time  all  the  friendly  dogs  about  had 
taken  up  the  sound  out  of  sympathy  with  Yarrow's  yells 
of  delight — and  into  this  came  the  clang  of  the  gate, 
the  sound  of  wheels,  an  outcry  in  a  human  voice,  that 
of  Barbara,  the  maid — and  then  a  young  shout  that  rang 
through  the  air — "Where's  my  mother,  Barbara,  where's 
granny?"  Philip,  it  may  be  imagined,  did  not  wait  for 
any  answer,  but  came  in  headlong.  Yarrow  leaping  after 
him,  Uiisk  springing  into  the  air  to  meet  him — him- 
self in  too  great  a  -hurry  to  heed  either,  flinging  him- 
self upon  the  astonished  lady  who  rose  to  meet  him, 
with  a  sudden  kiss,  and  a  "  Where's  my  mother, 
granny  ?  "  of  eager  greeting. 

"Pippo!  Good  gracious,  boy,  what's  brought  you 
home  now  ?  " 

"Nothing  but  good  news,"  he  said,  "so  good  I 
thought  I  must  come.  I've  got  it,  granny :  where  is  my 
mother " 

"  You've  got  it  ?  "  she  said,  so  full  of  other  thoughts 
that  she  could  not  recollect  what  it  was  he  meant. 
Pippo  thought,  as  Elinor  sometimes  thought,  that  his 
granny  was  getting  slow  of  understanding — not  so 
bright  as  she  used  to  be  in  her  mind. 

"  Oh,  granny,  you've  been  dozing  :  the  scholarship  ! 
I've  got  it — I  thought  you  would  know  the  moment  you 
heard  me  at  the  door " 

"My  dear  boy,"  she  said,  putting  her  arms  about 
him,  while  the  tall  boy  stood  for  the  homage  done  to 
him — the  kiss  of  congratulation.  "  You  have  got  the 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

scholarship  !  notwithstau cling  Howard  and  Musgrave 
and  the  hard  fight  there  was  to  be " 

Pippo  nodded,  with  a  bright  face  of  pleasure. 
"But,"  he  said — "I  can't  say  I'm  sorry  I've  got  it, 
granny — but  I  wish  there  had  been  another  for  Mus- 
grave :  for  he  worked  harder  than  I  did,  and  he  wanted 
so  to  win.  But  so  did  I,  for  that  matter.  And  where 
is  my  mother  all  this  time?  " 

"  How  delighted  she  will  be  :  and  what  a  comfort  to 
her  just  now  when  she  is  upset  and  troubled  !  My 
dear,  it'll  be  a  dreadful  disappointment  to  you  :  your 
mother  is  in  London.  She  had  to  hurry  off  the  day 
before  yesterday — on  business." 

"  In  London  !  "  cried  Pippo.  His  countenance  fell : 
he  was  so  much  disappointed  that  for  a  moment,  big 
boy  as  he  was,  he  looked  ready  to  cry.  He  had  come 
in  bursting  with  his  news,  expecting  a  reception  almost 
as  tumultuous  as  that  given  him  by  the  dogs  outside. 
And  he  found  only  his  grandmother,  who  forgot  what 
it  was  he  was  "  in  for  " — and  no  mother  at  all  ! 

"It  is  a  disappointment,  Pippo— and  it  will  be  such 
a  disappointment  to  her  not  to  hear  it  from  your  own 
lips  :  but  you  must  telegraph  at  once,  and  that  will  be 
next  best.  She  has  some  worrying  business — things 
that  she  hates  to  look  after — and  this  will  give  her  a 
little  heart." 

"  What  a  bore  !  "  said  Pippo,  with  hi:,  crest  down  and 
the  light  gone  out  of  him.  He  gave  himself  up  to  the 
dogs  who  had  been  jumping  about  him,  biding  their 
time.  "  Yarrow  knew/'  lie  said,  laughing,  to  get  the 
water  out  of  his  eyes.  "  He  gave  me  a  cheer  whenevf  r 
he  saw  me,  dear  old  fellow — and  little  Risky  too " 

"And  only  granny  forgot,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun  ; 
"  that  was  very  hard  upon  you,  Pippo  ;  my  thoughts 
were  all  with  your  mother.  And  I  couldn't  think  how 
you  could  get  back  at  this  time 

'•'  Well,"  said  the  boy,  "  my  work's  over,  you  know. 

There's  nothing  for  a  fellow  to  do  after  he's  got  the 

scholarship.      I  needn't   go  back  at   all  —  unless   you 

and   my  mother  wish   it.      I've — in  a  sort  of  a  way, 

24" 


370  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

done  everything  that  I  can  do.  Don't  laugh  at  me, 
granny ! " 

"  Laugh  at  you,  my  boy !  It  is  likely  I  should 
laugh  at  you.  Don't  you  know  I  am  as  proud  of  you 
as  your  mother  herself  can  be?  I  am  glad  and  proud," 
said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  "  for  I  ain  glad  for  her  as  well 
as  for  you.  Now,  Pippo,  you  want  something  to  eat." 

The  boy  looked  up  with  a  laugh.  "  Yes,  granny,"  he 
said,  "  you  always  divine  that  sort  of  thing.  I  do." 

Mrs.  Dennistoun  did  not  occupy  her  mind  with  any 
thought  of  that  little  unintentional  and  grateful  jibe — 
that  she  always  divined  that  sort  of  thing.  Among  the 
other  great  patiences  of  her  life  she  had  learnt  to  know 
that  the  mother  and  son,  loving  and  tender  as  they 
were,  had  put  her  back  unconsciously  into  the  proper 
place  of  the  old  woman — always  consulted,  always 
thought  of,  never  left  out ;  but  divining  chiefly  that 
sort  of  thing,  the  actual  needs,  the  more  apparent 
thoughts  of  those  about  her.  She  knew  it,  but  she  did 
not  dwell  upon  it — sometimes  it  made  her  smile,  but  it 
scarcely  hurt  her,  and  never  made  her  bitter,  she  com- 
prehended it  all  so  well.  Meanwhile  Pippo,  left  alone, 
devoted  himself  to  the  dogs  for  a  minute  or  two,  mak- 
ing them  almost  too  happy.  Then,  at  the  very  climax 
of  riotous  enjoyment,  cast  them  off  with  a  sudden, 
"  Down,  Yarrow  !  "  which  took  all  the  curl  in  a  moment 
out  of  the  noble  tail  with  which  Yarrow  was  sweeping 
all  the  unconsidered  trifles  off  Mrs.  Dennistoun's  work- 
table.  The  young  autocrat  walked  to  the  window  as 
he  shook  off  his  adoring  vassal,  and  stared  out  for  a 
little  with  his  hands  deeply  dug  into  his  pockets.  And 
then  a  new  idea  came  into  Pippo's  head  ;  the  most 
brilliant  new  idea,  which  restored  at  once  the  light  to 
his  eyes  and  elevation  to  his  crest.  He  said  nothing  of 
this,  however,  till  he  had  done  justice  to  the  excellent 
luncheon,  while  his  grandmother,  seated  beside  him  in 
the  dining-room  with  her  knitting,  looked  on  with 
pride  and  pleasure  and  saw  him  eat.  This  was  a  thing, 
they  were  all  of  accord,  which  she  always  thoroughly 
understood. 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELiyfjR.  371 

"  You  will  run  out  now  and  telegraph  to  jour  mother. 
She  is  in  the  old  rooms  in  Ebury  Street,  Pippo." 

"  Yes,  granny  ;  don't  you  think  now  a  fellow  of  my 
age,  having  done  pretty  well  and  all  that,  might  be 
trusted  to — make  a  little  expedition  out  of  his  own 
head  ?  " 

"  My  dear  !  you  have  always  been  trusted,  Pippo, 
you  know.  I  can't  remember  when  your  mother  or  I 
either  have  shown  any  want  of  trust — 

"Oh,  it's  not  that,"  said  Pippo,  confused.  "I  know 
I've  had  lots,  lots — far  more  than  most  fellows — of  my 
own  way.  It  was  not  that  exactly.  I  meant  without 
consulting  any  one,  just  to  do  a  thing  out  of  my  own 
head." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  it  will  be  quite  a  right  thing, 
Pippo  ;  but  I  should  know  better  if  you  were  to  tell 
me." 

"  That  would  scarcely  be  doing  it  out  of  my  own 
head,  would  it,  granny  ?  But  I  can't  keep  a  thing  to 
myself  ;  now  Musgrave  can,  you  know  ;  that's  the  great 
difference.  I  suppose  it  is  having  nobody  but  my 
mother  and  you,  who  always  spoil  me,  that  has  made 
me  that  I  can't  keep  a  secret." 

"  It  is  something  about  making  it  up  to  Musgrave 
for  not  winning  the  scholarship  ?  " 

Philip  grew  red  all  over  with  a  burning  blush  of 
shame.  "What  a  beast  I  am!"  he  said.  "  You  will 
scarcely  believe  me,  but  I  had  forgotten  that — though 

I  do  wish  I  could.  I  do  wish  there  was  any  way 

No,  granny,  it  was  all  about  myself." 

"Well,  my  dear?"  she  said,  in  her  benignant,  all- 
indulgent  grandmother's  voice. 

"It  is  no  use  going  beating  about  the  bush,"  he 
said.  "  Granny,  I'm  not  going  to  telegraph  to  mam- 
ma. I'll  run  up  to  London  by  the  night  mail." 

"Pippo!" 

"  Well,  it  isn't  so  extraordinary  ;  naturally  I  should 
like  to  tell  her  better  than  to  write.  It  didn't  quite 
come  off,  rny  telling  it  to  you,  did  it  ?  but  my  mother 
will  be  excited  about  it — and  then  it  will  be  a  surprise 


372  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

seeiug  me  at  all — and  then  if  she  is  worried  by  buai« 
ness  it  will  be  a  good  thing  to  have  me  to  stand  by  her. 
And — why  there  tire  a  hundred  reasons,  granny,  as  you 
must  see.  And  then  I  should  like  it  above  all." 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Denuistoun,  trembling  a  lit- 
tle. She  had  time  during  this  long  speech  to  collect 
herself,  to  get  over  the  first  shock,  but  her  nerves  still 
vibrated.  "  In  ordinary  circumstances,  I  should  think 
it  an  excellent  plan.  And  you  have  worked  well  for  it, 
and  won  your  holiday  ;  and  your  mother  always  enjoys 
wandering  about  town  with  you.  Still,  Pippo " 

"  Now  what  can  there  be  against  it  ?  "  the  boy  said, 
with  the  same  spark  of  fire  coming  into  his  blue  eyes 
which  had  often  been  seen  in  Elinor's  hazel  ones.  He 
was  like  the  Comptons,  a  refined  image  of  his  father, 
with  the  blue  eyes  and  very  dark  hair  which  had  once 
made  Phil  Compton  irresistible.  Pippo  had  the  habit, 
I  am  sorry  to  say,  of  being  a  little  impatient  with  hia 
grandmother.  Her  objections  seemed  old-world  and 
obsolete  at  the  first  glance. 

"  The  chief  thing  against  it  is  that  I  don't  think  your 
mother — would  wish  it,  Pippo." 

"  Mamma — think  me  a  bore,  perhaps  !  "  the  lad  cried, 
with  a  laugh  of  almost  scornful  amusement  at  this  ridic- 
ulous idea. 

"  She  would  never,  of  course,  think  you  a  bore  in 
any  circumstances — but  she  will  be  very  much  confined 
— she  could  not  take  you  with  her  to — lawyers'  offices. 
She  will  scarcely  have  any  time  to  herself." 

"  What  is  this  mysterious  business,  granny  ?  " 

"Indeed,  Pippo,  I  can  scarcely  tell  you.  It  is  some- 
thing connected  with  old  times— that  she  wishes  to 
have  settled  and  done  with.  I  did  not  inquire  very 
closely  ;  neither,  I  think,  should  you.  You  know  your 
poor  mother  lias  had  troubles  in  her  life 

"Has  she?"  said  Pippo,  with  wide  open  eyes.  "I 
have  never  seen  any.  I  think,  perhaps,  don't  you  know, 
granny,  ladies  —  make  mountains  of  molehills  —  or  so 
at  least  people  say " 

"Do  they?"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,    with  a  laugh. 


TUB  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR.  373 

"  So  you  Lave  begun  to  learn  that  sort  of  thing  already, 
Pippo,  even  here  at  the  end  of  the  world  !  " 

Pippo  was  a  little  mortified  by  her  laugh,  and  a  little 
ashamed  of  what  he  had  said.  It  is  very  tempting  at 
eighteen  to  put  on  a  man's  superiority,  yet  he  was  con- 
scious that  it  was  perhaps  a  little  ungenerous,  he  who 
owed  all  that  he  was  and  had  to  these  two  ladies  ;  but 
naturally  he  was  the  more  angry  because  of  this. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "  that  what  is  in  every  book 
that  ever  was  written  is  likely  to  be  true!  But  that 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  question.  I  won't  do  any- 
thing against  you  if  you  forbid  me  absolutely,  granny  ; 
but  short  of  that  I  will  go " 

Mrs.  Denuistouu  looked  at  the  boy  with  all  the  heat 
in  him  of  his  first  burst  of  independence.  It  is  only 
wise  to  compute  the  forces  opposed  to  one  before  one 
launches  a  command  which  one  may  not  have  force  to 
ensure  obedience  to.  He  said  that  he  would  not  dis- 
obey her  "  absolutely  "  with  his  lips  ;  but  his  eyes  ex- 
pressed a  less  dutiful  sentiment.  She  had  no  mind  to 
be  beaten  in  such  a  struggle.  Elinor  had  complained 
of  her  mother  in  her  youth  that  she  was  too  reasonable, 
too  unwilling  to  command,  too  reluctant  to  assume  the 
responsibility  of  an  act  ;  and  it  was  not  to  be  supposed 
that  she  had  mended  of  this,  in  all  the  experience  she 
had  had  of  her  impatient  daughter,  and  under  the  in- 
fluence of  so  many  additional  years.  She  looked  at 
Philip,  and  concluded  that  he  would  at  least  find  some 
way  of  eluding  her  authority  if  she  exercised  it,  and  it 
did  not  consist  with  her  dignity  to  be  either  "  abso- 
lutely "  or  partially  disobeyed. 

"  You  forget,"  she  said,  "  that  I  have  never  taken 
such  authority  upon  me  since  you  were  a  child.  I  will 
not  forbid  you  to  do  what  you  have  set  your  heart 
upon.  I  can  only  say,  Philip,  that  I  don't  think  your 
mother  would  wish  you  to  go " 

"If  that's  all,  granny,"  said  the  boy,  "I  think  I  can 
take  my  mother  into  my  own  hands.  But  why  do  you 
call  ine  Philip  ?  You  never  call  me  that  but  when  you 
are  angry." 


374  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

"  Was  I  ever  angry  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  smile  ;  "  but 
if  we  are  to  consider  you  a  man,  looking  down  upon 
women,  and  taking  your  movements  upon  your  own 
responsibility,  my  dear,  it  would  be  ridiculous  that  you 
should  be  little  Pippo  any  more." 

"  Not  little  Pippo,"  he  said,  with  a  boyish,  compla- 
cent laugh,  rising  up  to  his  full  height.  A  young  man 
nearly  six  feet  high,  with  a  scholarship  in  his  pocket, 
how  is  he  to  be  expected  to  take  the  law  from  his  old 
grandmother  as  to  what  he  is  to  do  ? 

And  young  Philip  did  go  to  town  triumphantly  by 
the  night  mail.  He  had  never  done  such  a  thing  be- 
fore, and  his  sense  of  manly  independence,  of  daring, 
almost  of  adventure,  was  more  delightful  than  words 
could  say.  There  was  not  even  any  one,  except  the 
man  who  had  driven  him  into  Penrith,  to  see  him 
away,  he  who  was  generally  accompanied  to  the  last 
minute  by  precautions,  and  admonitions,  and  farewells. 
To  feel  himself  dart  away  into  the  night  with  nobody 
to  look  back  to  on  the  platform,  no  gaze,  half  smiling, 
half  tearful,  to  follow  him,  was  of  itself  an  emancipation 
to  Pippo.  He  was  a  good  boy  and  no  rebel  against  the 
double  maternal  bond  which  had  lain  so  lightly  yet  so 
closely  upon  him  all  his  life.  It  was  only  for  a  year  or 
two  that  he  had  suspected  that  this  was  unusual,  or 
even  imagined  that  for  a  growing  man  the  sway  of  two 
ladies,  and  even  their  devotion,  might  make  others 
smile.  Perhaps  he  had  been  a  little  more  particular  in 
his  notions,  in  his  manners,  in  his  fastidious  dislike  to 
dirt  and  careless  habits,  than  was  common  in  the  some- 
what rough  north  country  school  which  bad  so  risen  in 
scholastic  note  under  the  last  head  master,  but  which 
was  very  far  from  the  refinements  of  Eton.  And  lately 
it  had  begun  to  dawn  upon  him  that  a  mother  and  a 
grandmother  to  watch  over  him  and  care  for  him  in 
everything  might  be  perhaps  a  little  absurd  for  a  young 
man  of  his  advanced  age.  Thus  his  escapade,  which 
was  against  the  will  of  his  elder  guardian,  and  without 
the  knowledge  of  his  mother — which  was  entirely  his 
own  act,  and  on  his  own  responsibility,  went  to  Philip's 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  3 75 

head,  and  gave  him  a  sort  of  intoxication  of  pleasure. 
That  his  mother  should  be  displeased,  really  displeased, 
should  not  want  him — incredible  thought !  never  en- 
tered into  his  mind  save  as  an  accountable  delusion  of 
granny's.  His  mother  not  want  him  !  All  the  argu- 
ments in  the  world  would  never  have  got  that  into 
young  Pippo's  head. 

Mrs.  Deunistoun  waking  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  to  think  of  the  boy  rushing  on  through  the  dark 
on  his  adventurous  way,  recollected  only  then  with 
much  confusion  and  pain  that  she  ought  to  have  tele- 
graphed to  Elinor,  who  might  be  so  engaged  as  to 
make  it  very  embarrassing  for  her  in  her  strange  cir- 
cumstances to  see  Pippo — that  the  boy  was  coming. 
In  her  agitation  she  had  forgotten  this  precaution. 
Was  it  perhaps  true,  as  the  young  ones  thought,  that 
she  was  getting  a  little  slower  in  her  movements,  a 
little  dulled  in  her  thoughts  ? 


CHAPTER  XL. 

JOHN  TATHAM  had  in  vain  attempted  to  persuade  Eli- 
nor to  come  to  his  house,  to  dine  there  in  comfort — he 
was  going  out  himself — so  that  at  least  in  this  time  of 
excitement  and  trouble  she  might  have  the  careful 
service  and  admirable  comfort  of  his  well-managed 
house.  Elinor  preferred  her  favourite  lodgings  and  a 
cup  of  tea  to  all  the  luxuries  of  Halkin  Street.  And 
she  was  fit  for  no  more  consultations  that  night.  She 
had  many,  many  things  to  think  of,  and  some  new 
which  as  yet  she  barely  comprehended.  The  rooms  in 
Ebury  Street  were  small,  and  they  were  more  or  less 
dingy,  as  such  rooms  are  ;  but  they  were  comfortable 
enough,  and  had  as  much  of  home  to  Elinor  as  repeated 
visits  there  with  all  her  belongings  could  give  them. 
The  room  in  which  she  slept  was  next  to  that  in  which 
her  boy  had  usually  slept.  That  was  enough  to  make 


nTO  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

it  no  strange  place.  'And  I  need  not  say  that  it  became 
the  scene  of  many  discussions  during  the  few  days  that 
followed.  The  papers  by  this  time  were  full  of  the 
strange  trial  which  was  coming  on  :  the  romance  of 
commercial  life  and  ruin — the  guilty  man  who  had  been 
absent  so  long,  enjoying  his  ill-gotten  gains,  and  who 
now  was  dragged  back  into  the  light  to  give  an  account 
of  himself — and  of  other  guilt  perhaps  less  black  than 
his  own,  yet  dreadful  enough  to  hear  of.  The  story  of 
the  destroyed  books  was  a  most  remarkable  and  pictu- 
resque incident  in  the  narrative.  The  leading  papers 
looked  up  their  own  account  of  the  facts  given  at  the 
time,  and  pointed  out  how  evidently  justified  by  the 
new  facts  made  known  to  the  public  Mas  the  theory 
they  had  themselves  given  forth.  As  these  theories, 
however,  were  very  different,  and  as  all  claimed  to  be 
right,  perhaps  the  conclusion  was  less  certain  than  this 
announcement  gave  warrant  to  believe.  But  each  and 
all  promised  "  revelations "  of  the  most  surprising 
kind — involving  some  of  the  highest  aristocracy,  the 
democratic  papers  said — bringing  to  light  an  exciting 
story  of  the  private  relations  between  husband  and 
wife,  said  those  of  society,  and  revealing  a  piquant 
chapter  of  social  history  hushed  up  at  the  time.  It 
was  a  modest  print  indeed  that  contented  itself  with 
the  statement  that  its  readers  would  find  a  romance  of 
real  life  involved  in  the  trial  which  was  about  to  take 
place.  Elinor  did  not,  fortunately,  see  all  these  com- 
ments. The  Times  and  the  Mornbicj  Post  were  dignified 
and  reticent,  and  she  did  not  read,  and  Avas  indeed 
scarcely  cognisant  of  the  existence  of  most  of  the 
others.  But  the  faintest  reference  to  the  trial  was 
enough,  it  need  hardly  be  said,  to  make  the  blood  boil 
in  her  ^eins. 

It  was  a  curious  thing  in  her  state  of  mind,  and  with 
the  feelings  she  had  towards  her  husband's  family,  that 
one  of  the  first  things  she  did  on  establishing  herself  in 
her  Ebury  Street  rooms,  was  to  look  for  an  old  "Peer- 
age "  which  had  lain  for  several  years  she  remembered 
on  a  certain  shelf.  Genteel  lodgings  in  Ebury  Street 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  377 

which  did  not  possess  somewhere  an  old  "Peerage" 
would  be  out  of  the  world  indeed.  She  found  it  in  the 
same  corner  as  of  old,  where  she  had  noted  it  so  often 
and  avoided  it  as  if  it  had  been  a  serpent ;  but  now  the 
first  thing  she  did,  as  soon  as  her  tray  was  brought  her, 
and  all  necessary  explanations  given,  and  the  door  shut, 
was  to  take  the  book  furtively  from  its  place,  almost  aa 
if  she  were  afraid  of  what  she  should  see.  What  a  list 
there  was  of  sons  of  Lord  St.  Serf !  some  she  had 
never  known,  who  died  young  :  and  Reginald  in  India, 
and  Hal,  who  was  so  kind — what  a  good  laugh  he  had, 
she  remembered,  not  a  joyless  cackle  like  Mariamne's, 
a  good  natural  laugh,  and  a  kind  light  in  his  eyes  : 
and  he  had  been  kind.  She  could  remember  ever  so 
many  tilings,  nothings,  things  that  made  a  little  differ- 
ence in  the  dull,  dull  cloudy  sky  of  a  neglected  wife. 
Poor  Hal !  and  he  too  was  gone,  and  St.  Serf  dying, 

and Pippo  the  heir ! — Pippo  was  perhaps,  for  any 

thing  she  knew,  Lord  Lomond  now. 

To  say  that  this  did  not  startle  Elinor,  did  not  make 
her  heart  beat,  did  not  open  new  complications  and 
vistas  in  life,  would  be  a  thing  impossible.  Pippo 
Lord  Lomond  !  Pippo,  whom  she  had  feared  to  expose 
to  his  father's  influence,  whom  she  had  kept  apart,  who 
did  not  know  anything  about  himself  except  that  he 
was  her  son — had  she  kept  and  guarded  the  boy  thus 
in  the  vei'y  obscurity  of  life,  in  the  stillest  and  most 
protected  circumstances,  only  to  plunge  him  suddenly 
at  last,  without  preparation,  without  warning,  into  the 
fiery  furnace  of  temptation,  into  a  region  where  he 
might  pardonably  (perhaps)  put  himself  be}'ond  her 
influence,  beyond  her  guidance  ?  Poor  Elinor  1  and 
yet  she  was  not  wholly  to  be  pitied  either.  For  her 
heart  was  fired  by  the.  thought  of  her  boy's  elevation 
in  spite  of  herself.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  such 
an  elevation  for  him  meant  something  also  for  her. 
That  view  of  the  case  she  did  not  take  into  consider- 
ation for  a  moment.  Nay,  she  did  not  think  of  it. 
But  that  Pippo  should  be  Lord  Lomond  went  through 
her  like  an  arrow — like  an  arrow  that  gave  a  wound, 


378  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

acute  and  sharp,  vet  no  pain,  if  such  a  thing  could  be 
said.  That  he  should  discover  his  father  had  been  the 
danger  before  her  all  his  life,  but  if  he  must  find  out  that 
he  had  a  father  that  was  a  way  in  which  it  might  not  be 
all  pain.  I  do  not  pretend  that  she  was  very  clear  in 
all  these  thoughts.  Indeed,  she  was  not  clear  at  all. 
John  Tatham,  knowing  but  one  side,  had  begun  to 
think  vaguely  of  Elinor  what  Elinor  thought  of  her 
mother,  that  her  mind  was  not  quite  as  of  old,  not  so 
bright  nor  so  vivid,  not  so  clear  in  coming  to  a  conclu- 
sion ;  had  he  known  everything  he  might  not  have  been 
so  sure  even  on  that  point.  But  then  had  he  known 
everything  that  Elinor  knew,  and  been  aware  of  what 
it  was  which  Elinor  had  been  summoned  by  all  the 
force  of  old  fidelity  and  the  honour  of  her  name  to  do, 
John  would  have  been  too  much  horrified  to  have  been 
able  to  form  an  opinion.  No,  poor  Elinor  was  not  at 
all  clear  in  her  thoughts — less  clear  than  ever  after  these 
revelations — the  way  before  her  seemed  dark  in  what- 
ever way  she  looked  at  it,  complications  were  round  her 
on  every  side.  She  had  instinctively,  without  a  word 
said,  given  up  that  idea  of  flight.  Who  was  it  that 
said  the  heir  to  a  peerage  could  not  be  hid  ?  John 
had  said  it,  she  remembered,  and  John  was  always 
right.  If  she  was  to  take  him  away  to  the  uttermost 
end  of  the  earth,  they  would  seek  him  out  and  find 
him.  And  then  there  was — his  father,  who  had  known 
all  the  time,  had  known  and  never  disturbed  her — 
No  wonder  that  poor  Elinor's  thoughts  were  mixed 
and  complicated.  She  walked  up  and  down  the  room, 
not  thinking,  but  letting  crowds  and  flights  of  thoughts 
like  birds  fly  through  her  mind  ;  no  longer  clear  indeed 
as  she  had  been  wont  to  be,  no  longer  coming  to 
sudden,  sharp  conclusions,  admitting  possibilities  of 
which  Elinor  once  upon  a  time  would  never  have 
thought. 

-  And  day  by  day  as  he  saw  her,  John  Tatham  under- 
stood her  less  and  less.  He  did  not  know  what  she 
meant,  what  she  was  going  to  do,  what  were  her  senti- 
ments towards  her  husband,  what  were  her  intentions 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  379 

towards  her  son.  He  had  found  out  a  great  deal  about 
the  case,  merely  as  a  case,  and  it  began  to  be  clear  to 
him  where  Elinor's  part  came  in.  Elinor  Compton 
could  not  have  appeared  on  her  husband's  behalf,  and 
whether  there  might  not  arise  a  question  whether, 
being  now  his  wife,  her  evidence  could  be  taken  on 
what  had  happened  before  she  was  his  wife,  was  by  no 
means  sure — "Why  didn't  they  call  your  mother?" 
John  said,  as  Mrs.  Denuistoun  also  had  said — but  he 
did  not  at  all  understand,  how  could  he?  the  dismay 
that  came  over  Elinor,  and  the  "Not  for  the  world," 
which  came  from  her  lips.  He  had  come  in  to  see  her 
in  the  morning  as  he  went  down  to  his  chambers,  on 
the  very  morning  when  Pippo,  quite  unexpected  and 
also  not  at  all  desired,  was  arriving  at  Euston  Square. 

"It  would  have  been  much  better,"  he  said,  "  in 
every  way  if  they  had  called  }rour  mother — who  of 
course  must  know  exactly  what  you  know,  Elinor,  in 
respect  to  this  matter ' 

"  Xo,"  said  Elinor  with  dry  lips.  "  She  knows  noth- 
ing. She — calculates  back  by  little  incidents — she 
does  not  remember  :  I — do " 

"  That's  natural,  I  suppose,"  said  John,  with  an  im- 
patient sigh  and  a  half-angry  look.  "  Still  —  my 
aunt " 

"  Would  do  no  good  at  all  :  you  may  believe  me, 
John.  Don't  let  us  speak  of  this  any  more.  I  know 
what  has  to  be  done  :  my  mother  would  twist  herself 
up  among  her  calculations — about  Alick  Hudson's  ex- 
amination and  I  know  not  what.  Whereas  I — there 
is  nothing,  nothing  more  to  be  said.  I  thought  I 
could  escape,  and  it  is  your  doing  if  I  now  see  that  I 
cannot  escape.  I  can  but  hope  that  Providence  will 
protect  my  boy.  He  is  at  school,  where  they  have  lit- 
tle time  for  reading  the  papers.  He  may  never  even 
see — or  at  least  if  he  does  he  may  think  it  is  another 
Compton— some  one  whom  he  never  heard  of " 

"And  how  if  he  becomes  Lord  Lomond,  as  I  said, 
before  the  secret  is  out  ?  " 

"Oh,  John,  "cried  Elinor,  wringing  her  hands — "don't, 


380  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

don't  torment  me  with  that  idea  now  —  let  only  this 
be  past  and  then  :  Oh,  I  see,  I  see — I  am  not  a  fool — I 
perceive  that  I  cannot  hide  him  as  you  say  if  that  hap- 
pens. But  oh,  John,  for  pity's  sake  let  this  be  over 
first !  Let  us  not  hurry  everything  on  at  the  same 
time.  He  is  at  school.  What  do  schoolboys  care  for 
the  newspapers,  especially  for  trials  in  the  law  courts? 
Oh,  let  this  be  over  first !  A  boy  at  school — and  he 
need  never  know " 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  a  hansom  drew  up,  and  a 
rattling  peal  came  at  the  door.  Hansoms  are  not  rare 
in  Ebury  Street,  and  how  can  one  tell  in  these  small 
houses  if  the  penl  is  at  one's  door  or  the  next?  Elinor 
was  not  disturbed.  She  paid  no  attention.  She  ex- 
pected no  one,  she  was  afraid  of  nothing  new  for  the 
present.  Surely,  surely,  as  she  said,  there  was  enough 
for  the  present.  It  did  not  seern  possible  that  any  new 
incident  should  come  now. 

"I  do  not  want  to  torment  you,  Elinor — you  may 
imagine  I  would  be  the  last— I  would  only  save  you  if 

I  could  from  what  must  be What !  what  ?  who's 

this  ? — PHILIP  !  the  boy  !  " 

The  door  had  burst  open  with  an  eager,  impatient 
hand  upon  it,  and  there  stood  upon  the  threshold,  in 
all  the  mingled  excitement  and  fatigue  of  his  night 
journey,  pale,  sleep  in  his  eyes,  yet  happy  expectation, 
exultation,  the  certainty  of  open  arms  to  receive  him, 
and  cries  of  delight — the  boy.  He  stood  for  a  second 
looking  into  the  strange  yet  familiar  room.  John 
Tatham  had  sprung  to  his  feet  and  stood  startled,  hesi- 
tating, while  young  Philip's  eyes,  noting  him  with  a 
glance,  flashed  past  him  to  the  other  more  important, 
more  beloved,  the  mother  whom  he  had  expected  to 
rush  towards  him  with  an  outcry  of  joy. 

And  Elinor  sat  still  in  her  chair,  struck  dumb,  grown 
pale  like  a  ghost,  her  eyes  wide  open,  her  lips  apart. 
The  sight  of  the  boy,  her  beloved  child,  her  pride  and 
delight,  was  as  a  horrible  spectacle  to  Elinor.  She 
stared  at  him  like  one  horrified,  and  neither  moved  nor 
spoke. 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  381 

"Elinor!"  cried  John,  terrified,  "there's  nothing 
wrong.  Don't  you  see  it's  Philip  ?  Boy,  what  do  you 
mean  by  giving  her  such  a  fright?  She's  fainting,  I 
believe." 

"  I — give  her  a  fright ! "  cried,  half  in  anguish,  half 
in  indignation,  the  astonished  boy. 

"  No,  I'm  not  fainting.  Pippo !  there's  nothing 
wrong — at  home  ?"  Elinor  cried,  holding  out  her  hand 
to  him — coming  to  herself,  which  meant  only  awaken- 
ing to  the  horror  of  a  danger  far  more  present  than  she 
had  ever  dreamt,  and  to  the  sudden  sight  not  of  her 
boy,  but  of  that  Nemesis  which  she  had  so  carefully 
prepared  for  herself,  and  which  had  been  awaiting  her 
for  years.  She  was  not  afraid  of  anything  wrong  at 
home.  It  was  the  first  shield  she  could  find  in  the 
shock  which  had  almost  paralysed  her,  to  conceal  her 
terror  and  distress  at  the  sight  of  him  from  the  aston- 
ished, disappointed,  mortified,  and  angry  boy. 

"  I  thought,"  he  said,  "  you  would  have  been  glad  to 
see  me,  mother !  No,  there's  nothing  wrong  at  home." 

"  Thank  heaven  for  that !  "  cried  Elinor,  feeling  her- 
self more  and  more  a  hypocrite  as  'she  recovered  from 
the  shock.  "  Pippo,  I  was  saying  this  moment  that 
you  were  at  school.  The  words  were  scarcely  off  my 
lips — and  then  to  see  you  in  a  moment,  standing 
there." 

"I  thought,"  he  repeated  again,  trembling  with  the 
disappointment  and  mortification,  wounded  in  his 
cheerful,  confident  affection,  and  in  his  young  pride, 
the  monarch  of  all  he  surveyed — "  I  thought  you  would 
have  been  pleased  to  see  me,  mother  !  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  John,  cheerfully,  "  your  mother  is 
glad  to  see  you  :  and  so  am  I,  you  impetuous  boy, 
though  you  don't  take  the  trouble  of  shaking  hands 
with  me.  He  wants  to  be  kissed  and  coddled,  Elinor, 
and  I  must  be  off  to  my  chambers.  But  I  should  like 
to  know  first  what's  up,  boy  ?  You've  got  something 
to  say." 

"  Pippo,  what  is  it,  my  dearest  ?  You  did  give  me  a 
great  fright,  and  I  am  still  nervous  a  little.  Tell  rue, 


382  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

Pippo  ;  something  has  brought  you — your  uncle  John 
is  right.  I  can  see  it  in  your  eyes.  You've  got  some- 
thing to  tell  me  !  " 

The  tired  and  excited  boy  looked  from  one  to  an- 
other, two  faces  both  full  of  a  veiled  but  intense  anx- 
iety, looking  at  him  as  if  what  they  expected  was  no 
good  news.  He  burst  out  into  a  big,  hoarse  laugh,  the 
only  way  to  keep  himself  from  crying.  "You  don't 
even  seem  to  remember  anything  about  it,"  he  cried, 
flinging  himself  down  in  the  nearest  chair  ;  "and  for 
my  part  I  don't  care  any  longer  whether  any  one  knows 
or  not." 

And  Elinor,  whose  thoughts  were  on  such  different 
things — whose  whole  mind  was  absorbed  in  the  ques- 
tion of  what  he  could  have  heard  about  the  trial,  about 
his  father,  about  the  new  and  strange  future  before 
him — gazed  at  him  with  eyes  that  seemed  hollowed  out 
all  round  with  devouring  anxiety.  "What  is  it?  "  she 
said,  "  what  is  it  ?  For  God's  sake  tell  me !  What 
have  you  heard  ?  " 

It  goes  against  all  prejudices  to  imagine  that  John 
Tatharn,  a  man  who  never  had  had  a  child,  an  old 
bachelor  not  too  tolerant  of  youth,  should  have  divined 
the  boy  better  than  his  mother.  But  he  did,  perhaps 
because  he  was  a  lawyer,  and  accustomed  to  investigate 
the  human  countenance  and  eye.  He  saw  that  Philip 
was  full  of  something  of  his  own,  immediately  interest- 
ing to  himself ;  and  he  cast  about  quickly  in  his  mind 
what  it  could  be.  Not  that  the  boy  was  heir  to  a  peer- 
age :  he  would  never  have  come  like  this  to  announce 
that  :  but  something  that  Philip  was  cruelly  disap- 
pointed his  mother  did  not  remember.  This  passed 
through  John's  mind  like  a  flash,  though  it  takes  a 
long  time  to  describe.  "Ah,"  he  said,  "I  begin  to 
divine.  Was  not  there  something  about  a — scholar- 
ship ?  " 

"  Pippo  ! "  cried  Elinor,  lighting  up  great  lamps  of 
relief,  of  sudden  ease  and  quick  coming  joy,  in  her 
brightened  eyes  and  face.  "  My  boy !  you've  won 
your  battle !  You've  got  it,  you've  got  it,  Pippo ! 


-     THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELI X  OR. 

And  your  foolish,  stupid  mother  that  thought  for  a  mo- 
ment you  could  rush  to  her  like  this  with  anything  but 
good  news  !  " 

It  took  a  few  moments  to  soothe  Pippo  down,  and 
mend  his  wounded  feelings.  "I  began  to  think  no- 
body  cared,"  he  said,  "and  that  made  me  that  I  didn't 
care  myself.  I'd  rather  Musgrave  had  got  it,  if  it  had 
not  been  to  please  you  all.  And  you  never  seemed  so 
much  as  to  remember — only  Uncle  John  !  "  he  added 
after  a  moment,  with  a  half  scorn  -which  made  John 
laugh  at  the  never-failing  candour  of  youth. 

'•  Only  the  least  important  of  all,"  he  said.  "It  was 
atrocious  of  the  ladies,  Philip.  Shake  hands,  my  boy, 
I  owe  you  five  pounds  for  the  scholarship.  And  now 
111  take  myself  off,  which  will  please  you  most  of  all." 

He  went  down-stairs  laughing  to  himself  all  the  way, 
but  got  suddenly  quite  grave  as  he  stepped  outside  — 
whether  because  he  remembered  that  it  does  not  be- 
come a  Q.C.  and  M.P.  to  laugh  in  the  street,  or  for 
other  causes,  it  does  not  become  us  to  attempt  to  say. 

And  Elinor  meanwhile  made  it  up  to  her  boy  amply, 
and  while  her  heart  ached  with  the  question  what  to  do 
•with  him,  how  to  dispose  of  him  during  those  dreadful 
following  days,  behaved  herself  as  if  her  head  too  was 
half  turned  with  joy  and  exultation,  only  tempered  by 
the  regret  that  Musgrave,  who  had  worked  so  hard, 
could  not  have  got  the  scholarship  too. 


CHAPTER  XLL 

ELINOR  made  much  of  her  boy  during  that  day  and 
the  following  days,  to  take  away  the  sense  of  disappoint- 
ment which  even  after  the  first  great  mortification  was 
got  over  still  haunted  young  Philip's  mind.  It  sur- 
prised him  beyond  measure  to  find  that  she  did  not 
wish  to  go  out  with  him,  indeed  in  so  far  as  was  possible 
avoided  it  altogether,  save  for  a  hurried  drive  to  a  few 


384  77/7?  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR. 

places,  during  which  she  kept  her  veil  down  and  shel- 
'tered  herself  with  an  umbrella  in  the  most  ridiculous 
way.  "  Are  you  afraid  of  your  complexion,  mother  ?  " 
the  boy  asked  of  her  with  disdain.  "It  looks  like  it," 
she  said,  but  with  a  laugh  that  was  full  of  embarrass- 
ment, "  though  it  is  a  little  late  in  the  day."  Elinor 
was  perhaps  better  aware  than  Pippo  was  that  she  had 
a  complexion  which  a  girl  might  have  envied,  and  was 
still  as  fresh  as  a  rose,  notwithstanding  that  she  was  a 
year  or  two  over  forty  ;  but  I  need  not  say  it  was  not  of 
her  complexion  she  was  thinking.  She  had  been  care- 
ful to  choose  her  time  on  previous  visits  to  London  so 
as  to  risk  as  little  as  possible  the  chance  of  meeting  her 
husband.  But  now  there  was  no  doubt  that  he  was  in 
town,  and  not  the  least  that  if  he  met  her  anywhere  with 
Pippo,  her  secret,  so  far  as  it  had  ever  been  a  secret, 
would  be  in  his  hands.  Even  when  John  took  the  boy 
out  it  was  with  a  beating  heart  that  his  mother  saw  him 
go,  for  John  was  too  well  known  to  make  any  secret 
possible  about  his  movements,  or  who  it  was  who  was 
with  him.  Perhaps  it  was  for  this  reason  that  John 
desired  to  take  him  out,  and  even  cut  short  his  day's 
work  on  one  or  two  occasions  to  act  as  cicerone  to 
Philip.  He  took  him  to  the  House,  to  the  great  ex- 
citement and  delight  of  the  boy,  who  only  wished  that 
the  entertainment  could  have  been  made  complete  by  a 
speech  from  Uncle  John,  which  was  a  point  in  which 
his  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend,  though  in  every 
other  way  so  complaisant,  did  not  humour  Pippo.  On 
one  occasion  during  the  first  week  they  had  an  en- 
counter which  made  John's  middle-aged  pulses  move  a 
little  quicker.  When  they  were  walking  along  through 
Hyde  Park,  having  sti-olled  that  way  in  the  fading  of 
the  May  afternoon,  when  the  carriages  were  still  prom- 
enading up  and  down,  before  they  returned  to  Halkin 
Street  to  dinner,  where  Elinor  awaited  them — it  hap- 
pened to  Mr.  Tatham  to  meet  the  roving  eyes  of  Lady 
Mariamne,  who  lay  back  languidly  in  her  carriage, 
wrapped  in  a  fur  cloak,  and  shivering  in  the  chill  of  the 
evening.  She  was  not  particularly  interested  in  any- 


THE  MA1UUAOK   OP   XLiyOR.  3*5 

or  any  person  whom  she  had  seen,  and  was  a 
little  cross  and  desirous  of  getting  home.  But  when 
she  saw  John  she  roused  up  immediately,  and  gave  a 
sign  to  Dolly,  who  sat  by  her,  to  pull  the  check- string. 
"  Mr.  Tathaui  ! "  she  cried,  in  her  shrill  voice.  Lady 
Mariana ne  was  not  one  of  the  people  who  object  to  hear 
their  voice  in  public  or  are  reluctant  to  make  their 
wishes  known  to  everybody.  She  felt  herself  to  be  of 
the  cast  in  which  everybody  is  interested,  and  that  the 
public  liked  to  know  whom  she  honoured  with  her  ac- 
quaintance. "Mr.  Tatham!  are  you  going  to  cany 
your  rudeness  so  far  as  not  to  seem  to  know  me  ?  Oh, 
come  here  this  moment,  you  impertinent  man  !  " 

"  Can  I  be  of  any  use  to  you,  Lady  Mariamne  ?  "  said 
John,  gravely,  at  the  carriage  door. 

"Oh,  dear  no;  you  can't  be  of  any  use.  What 
should  I  have  those  men  for  if  I  wanted  you  to  be  of 
use?  Come  and  talk  a  moment,  that's  all ;  or  get  into  the 
carriage  and  I'll  take  you  anywhere.  Dolly  and  I  have 
driven  round  and  round,  and  we  have  not  seen  a 
ci-eature  we  cared  to  see.  Yes!  there  was  a  darling, 
darling  little  Maltese  terrier,  with  white  silk  curls  hang- 
ing over  his  eyes,  on  an  odious  woman's  lap  ;  but  I  can- 
not expect  you  to  find  that  angel  for  me.  Mr.  Tatham, 
who  is  that  tall  boy  ?  " 

"Pippo,"  said  John,  quickly  (though  probably  he  had 
never  in  his  life  before  used  that  name,  which  he  dis- 
approved of  angrily,  as  people  often  do  of  a  childish 
name  which  does  not  please  them),  "  go  on.  I'll  come 
after  you  directly.  The  boy  is  a  cousin  of  mine,  Lady 
Mariamne,  just  from  school." 

"  Mr.  Tatham,  I  am  quite  sure  it  is  NelFs  boy.  Call 
after  him.  What's  his  name  ?  Bring  him  back  !  John 
Thomas,  run  after  that  young  gentleman,  and  say  with 
my  compliments " 

"  Nothing,"  said  John,  stopping  the  footman  with  a 
lifted  hand  and  a  still  more  emphatic  look.  "He  is 
hastening  home  to — an  engagement.  And  it's  evident 
I  had  better  go  too — for  your  little  friend  there  is  show- 
ing his  teeth." 

25 


386  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

" The  darling !"  said  Lady  Mariamne,  "did  it  show 
its  little  pearls  at  the  wicked  man  that  will  not  do  what 
its  mummy  says  ?  Dolly,  can't  you  jump  down  and  run 
after  that  boy  ?  I  am  sure  it  is  your  Uncle  Philip's 
boy." 

"He  is  out  of  sight,  mother,"  said  Miss  Dolly,  calmly. 

"You  are  the  most  dreadful,  wicked,  unkind  people, 
all  of  you.  Show  its  little  teeth,  then,  darling  !  Go's 
the  only  one  that  has  any  feeling.  Mr.  Tatham,  do  tell 
me  something  about  this  trial.  What  is  going  to  be 
done  ?  Phil  is  mixed  up  in  it.  I  know  he  is.  Can  they 
do  anything  to  anybody — after  all  this  time?  They 
can't  make  you  pay  up,  I  know,  after  a  certain  time. 
Oh,  couldn't  it  all  be  hushed  up  and  stopped  and  kept 
out  of  the  newspapers?  I  hate  the  newspapers,  always 
chuckling  over  every  new  discovery.  But  this  cannot 
be  called  a  new  discovery.  If  it's  true  it's  old,  as  old 
as  the  old  beginning  of  the  world.  Don't  you  think 
somebody  could  get  at  the  newspaper  men  and  have  it 
hushed  up  ?  " 

"  I  doubt  if  you  could  get  hold  of  all  of  them,  their 
name  is  legion,"  said  John. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care  what  their  name  is.  If  you  will 
help  me,  Mr.  Tatham,  we  could  get  hold  of  most  of 
them — won't  you  ?  You  know,  don't  you,  poor  St. 
Serf  is  so  bad  ;  it  may  be  over  any  day — and  then  only 
think  what  a  complication  !  Dolly,  turn  your  head  the 
other  way  ;  look  at  that  silly  young  Huutsfield  capering 
about  to  catch  your  eye.  I  don't  want  you  to  hear 
what  I  have  got  to  say." 

"  I  don't  in  the  least  way  want  to  hear  what  you  have 
got  to  say,  dear  mamma,"  said  Dolly. 

"  That  would  have  made  me  listen  to  every  word," 
said  Lady  Mariamne  ;  "  but  girls  are  more  queer  now- 
adays than  anything  that  ever  was.  Mr.  Tatham" — 
she  put  her  hand  upon  his,  which  was  on  the  carriage 
door,  and  bent  her  perfumed,  powdered  face  towards 
him  —  "  for  goodness'  sake  —  think  how  awkward  it 
would  be — a  man  just  succeeding  to  a  title  and  that 
sort  of  thing  put  in  all  the  papers  about  him.  Do, 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  387 

do  stop  it,  or  try  something  to  stop  it,  for  goodness' 
sake !  " 

"  I  assure  you,"  said  John,  "  I  can  do  nothing  to  stop 
it.  I  am  as  powerless  as  you  are." 

"Oh,  I  don't  say  that  I  am  powerless,"  .said  Lady 
Mariamne,  with  her  shrill  laugh.  "One  has  one's  little 
ways  of  influence."  Then  she  put  her  hand  again  upon 
John  with  a  sudden  grip.  "  Mr.  Tatham,"  she  said, 
"  tell  me,  in  confidence,  was  that  Phil's  boy  ?  " 

"I  have  told  you,  Lady  Mariamne,  it  is  a  nephew  of 
mine." 

"  A  nephew — oh,  I  know  what  kind  of  a  nephew — & 
la  mode  de  firetagne  !  " 

She  turned  her  head  to  the  other  side,  where  her 
daughter  was  gazing  calmly  in  front  of  her. 

"  Dolly !  I  was  sure  of  it,"  she  cried,  "  don't  you  hear? 
Polly,  don't  you  hear  ?  " 

"Which,  mamma?"  said  Dolly,  gravely  ;  "of  course 
I  could  not  help  hearing  it  all.  Which  part  was  I  to 
notice  ?  about  the  newspapers  or  about  the  boy  ?  " 

Lady  Mariamne  appealed  to  earth  and  heaven  with 
the  loud  cackle  of  her  laugh.  "  He  can't  deny  it,"  she 
said  ;  "  he  as  good  as  owns  it.  I  am  certain  that's  the 
boy  that  will  be  Lomond." 

"Uncle  St.  Serf  is  not  dead  yet,"  said  Dolly,  reprov- 
ingly. 

"  Poor  Serf  ! — but  he's  so  very  bad,"  said  Lady  Ma- 
riamne, "  that  it's  almost  the  same  thing.  Mr.  Tatham, 
can't  we  take  you  anywhere  ?  I'm  so  glad  I've  seen 
Nell's  boy.  Can't  we  drive  you  home  ?  Perhaps  you've 
got  Nell  there  too  ?  " 

John  stood  back  from  the  carriage  door,  just  in  time 
to  escape  the  start  of  the  horses  as  the  remorseless 
string  was  touched  and  the  footman  clambered  up  into 
his  seat.  Lady  Mariamne's  smile  went  off  her  face, 
and  she  had  forgotten  all  about  it,  to  judge  from  ap- 
pearances, before  he  had  got  himself  in  motion  again. 
And  a  little  farther  on,  behind  the  next  tree,  he  found 
young  Philip  waiting,  full  of  curiosity  and  questions. 

"  Who  was  that  lady,  Uncle  John.?    Was  she  asking 


388  •////•;  .v.'.'UtiAiti-;  />/••  KIJXOR. 


about  me  ?  I  thought  I  heard  her  call.  I  had  half  a 
mind  to  run  back  and  say  'Here  I  am.'" 

"It  was  much  bci'er  that  you  didn't  do  anything  of 
the  kind.  Never  pay  any  attention  when  you  think  you 
hear  a  fine  lady  calling  you,  Philip.  It  is  better  not  to 
hear  the  Siren's  call." 

"When  they're  elderly  Sirens  like  that!"  said  the 
boy,  with  a  laugh.  "But  I  say,  Uncle  John,  if  you 
won't  tell  me  who  the  lady  is,  who  is  the  girl  ?  She 
has  a  paii-  of  eyes  !  —  not  like  Sirens  though  —  eyes  that 
go  through  you  —  like  —  like  a  pair  of  lancets." 

"  A  surgical  operation  in  fact  :  and  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  she  meant  to  be  a  doctor,"  said  John.  "  The 
mother  has  done  nothing  all  her  life,  therefore  the 
daughter  means  to  do  much.  It  is  the  natural  reaction 
of  the  generations.  But  I  never  noticed  that  Miss  Dolly 
had  any  eyes  —  to  speak  of,"  said  the  highly  indifferent 
middle-aged  man. 

The  boy  flushed  with  a  sense  of  indignation.  "  Per- 
haps you  think  the  old  lady's  were  finer  ?  "  he  said. 

"I  never  admired  the  old  lady,  as  you  call  her,"  said 
John,  shortly  ;  and  then  he  turned  Philip's  attention  to 
sometbiug,  possibly  with  the  easily  satisfied  conviction 
of  a  spectator  that  the  boy  thought  of  it  no  more. 

"  We  met  my  Lady  Mariamne  in  the  park,"  he  said 
to  Elinor  when  they  sat  at  dinner  an  hour  later  at  that 
bachelor  table  in  Halkin  Street,  where  everything  was 
so  exquisitely  cared  for.  It  was  like  Elinor,  but  most 
unlike  the  place  in  which  she  found  herself,  that  she 
started  so  violently  as  to  shake  the  whole  table,  crying 
out  in  a  tone  of  consternation,  "John!"  as  if  he  did 
not  know  very  well  what  he  might  venture  to  say,  or 
as  if  he  had  any  intention  of  betraying  her  to  her  son. 

"  She  was  very  anxious,"  he  said,  perhaps  playing  a 
little  with  her  excitement,  "  to  have  Philip  presented  to 
her  :  but  I  sent  him  on  —  that  is  to  say,  I  thought  I  sent 
him  on.  The  fellow  went  no  farther  than  to  the  next 
tree,  where  he  stood  and  watched  Miss  Dolly,  not  feel- 
ing any  interest  in  the  old  lady,  as  he  said." 

"Well,  Uncle  John  —  did  you  expect  me  to  look  at 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR.  389 

the  old  lady  ?    You  are  not  so  fond  of  old  ladies  your- 
self." 

"  And  who  is  Miss  Dolly  ? "  said  Elinor,  trying  to 
conceal  the  beating  of  her  heart  and  the  quiver  on  her 
lips  with  a  smile  ;  and  then  she  added,  with  a  little 
catch  of  her  breath,  "  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  there  was  a 
little  girl." 

"  You  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that  we  are  by  way 
of  being  great  friends.  Her  ladyship  visits  me  in  my 
chambers " 

Again  Elinor  uttered  that  startled  cry,  "John  !  "  but 
she  tried  this  time  to  cover  it  with  a  tremulous  laugh. 
"  Are  you  becoming  a  flirt  in  your  old  age?" 

"  It  appears  so,"  said  John.  And  then  he  added, 
"  That  aphorism,  which  struck  you  as  it  struck  me,  Eli- 
nor, by  its  good  sense — about  the  heir  to  a  peerage — is 
really  her  production,  and  not  mine." 

"  Miss  Dolly's  ?  And  what  was  the  aphorism,  Uncle 
John  ?  "  cried  Philip. 

"  No,  it  was  not  Miss  Dolly's,  my  young  man.  It 
was  the  mother's,  and  so  of  course  does  not  interest 
you  any  more." 

It  did  not  as  a  matter  of  fact :  the  old  lady  was  su- 
premely indifferent  to  Pippo  ;  but  as  he  looked  up  say- 
ing something  else  which  did  not  bear  upon  the  sub- 
ject, it  occurred  to  the  boy,  as  it  will  sometimes  occur 
by  the  merest  chance  to  a  young  observer,  to  notice  his 
mother.  She  caught  his  eye  somehow  in  the  most  ac- 
cidental way  ;  and  Pippo  was  too  well  acquainted  with 
her  looks  not  to  perceive  that  there  was  a  thrill  in  every 
line  of  her  countenance,  a  slight  nervous  tremble  in  her 
hands  and  entire  person,  such  as  was  in  no  way  to  be 
accounted  for  (he  thought)  by  anything  that  had  been 
-said  or  done.  There  was  nothing  surely  to  disquiet 
her  in  dining  at  Uncle  John's,  the  three  alone,  not  even 
one  other  guest  to  fill  up  the  vacant  side  of  the  table. 
Philip  had  himself  thought  that  Uncle  John  might  have 
asked  some  one  to  meet  them.  He  should  have  re- 
membered that  he  himself,  Philip,  was  now  of  an  age 
to  dine  out,  and  see  a  little  society,  and  go  into  the 


390  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

world.  But  what  in  the  name  of  all  that  was  wonder- 
ful was  there  in  this  entertainment  to  agitate  his 
mother  ?  And  John  Tatham  had  a  look — which  Philip 
did  not  understand — the  look  of  a  man  who  was  suc- 
cessful in  argument,  who  was  almost  crushing  an  op- 
ponent. It  was  as  if  a  duel  had  been  going  on  between 
them,  and  the  man  was  the  victor,  which,  as  was  natu- 
ral, immediately  threw  Philip  violently  on  the  other  side. 

"  You're  not  well,  mother,"  he  said. 

"  Do  you  think  not,  Pippo  ?  Well,  perhaps  you  are 
right.  London  is  too  much  for  me.  I  am  a  country 
bird,"  said  Elinor,  with  smiling  yet  trembling  lips. 

"You  shall  not  go  to  the  theatre  if  you  are  not  up  to 
it,"  said  the  boy  in  his  imperious  way. 

She  gave  him  an  affectionate  look,  and  then  she 
looked  across  the  table  at  John.  What  did  that  look 
mean  ?  There  was  a  faint  smile  in  it :  and  there  was  a 
great  deal  which  Philip  did  not  understand,  things  un- 
derstood by  Uncle  John — who  was  after  all  what  you 
might  call  an  outsider,  no  more — and  not  by  him,  her 
son !  Could  anything  be  so  monstrous  ?  Philip  blazed 
up  with  sudden  fire. 

"No,"  said  John  Tatham  ;  "I  think  Philip's  right. 
We'll  take  her  home  to  be  coddled  by  her  maid,  and 
we'll  go  off,  two  wild  }roung  fellows,  to  the  play  by 
ourselves." 

"  No,"  said  Philip,  "  I'll  leave  her  to  be  coddled  by  no 
maid.  I  can  take  care  of  my  mother  myself." 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  Elinor,  "I  want  no  coddling. 
But  I  doubt  whether  I  could  stand  the  play.  I  like 
you  to  go  with  Uncle  John." 

And  then  it  began  to  dawn  upon  Philip  that  his  mother 
had  never  meant  to  be  of  the  party,  and  that  this  was 
what  had  been  settled  all  along.  He  was  more  angry,- 
more  wounded  and  hurt  in  his  spirit  than  he  had  of 
course  the  least  occasion  to  be.  He  was  of  opinion  that 
his  mother  had  never  had  any  secrets  from  him,  that 
she  had  taken  him  into  her  confidence  since  he  was  a 
small  boy,  even  things  that  Granny  did  not  know ! 
And  here  all  at  once  there  was  risine;  between  them  a 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  391 

cloud,  a  mist,  which  there  was  no  reason  for.  If  he  had 
done  anything  to  make  him  less  worthy  he  would  have 
understood  ;  had  there  been  a  bad  report  from  school, 
had  he  failed  in  his  work  and  disappointed  her,  there 
might  have  been  some  reason  for  it.,  But  he  had  done 
nothing  of  the  kind  !  Never  before  had  he  been  so  de- 
serving of  confidence  ;  he  had  got  his  scholarship,  he 
had  finished  the  first  phase  of  his  education  in  triumph, 
and  fulfilled  all  her  expectations.  And  now  just  at  this 
point  of  all  others,  just  when  he  was  most  fit  to  under- 
stand, most  worthy  of  trust,  she  turned  from  him.  His 
heart  swelled  as  if  it  would  burst,  with  anger  first,  al- 
most too  strong  to  be  repressed,  and  with  that  sense  of 
injured  merit  which  is  of  all  things  the  most  hard  to 
bear.  It  is  hard  enough  even  when  one  is  aware  one 
deserves  no  better.  But  to  be  conscious  of  your  worth 
and  to  feel  that  you  are  not  appreciated,  that  is  indeed 
too  much  for  any  one.  There  was  not  even  the  satis- 
faction of  giving  up  the  play  which  he  had  looked  for- 
ward, to,  making  a  sacrifice  of  it  to  his  mother,  in  which 
there  would  have  been  a  severe  pleasure.  But  she  did 
not  want  him !  She  preferred  that  he  should  leave  her 
by  herself  to  be  coddled  by  her  maid,  as  Uncle  John 
(vulgarly)  said.  Or  perhaps  was  there  somebody  else 
coming,  some  old  friend  whom  he  knew  nothing  of, 
somebody,  some  one  or  other  like  that  old  witch  in  the 
carriage  whom  Pippo  was  not  meant  to  know  ? 

It  ended,  however,  in  the  carrying  out  of  the  plan 
settled  beforehand  by  those  old  conspirators.  The  old 
conspirators  do  generally  manage  to  carry  out  their 
plans  for  the  management  of  rebellious  youth,  however 
injured  the  latter  may  feel.  Pippo  wound  himself  up 
in  solemn  dignity  and  silence  when  he  understood  that 
it  was  ordained  that  he  should  proceed  to  the  play  with 
John  Tatham.  And  the  pair  had  got  half  way  to  Drury 
Lane — or  it  may  have  been  the  Lyceum,  or  the  Hay- 
market,  or  any  of  half-a-dozen  other  theatres,  for  here 
exact  information  fails — before  he  condescended  to  open 
his  lips  for  more  than  Yes  or  No.  But  Philip's  gloom 
did  not  survive  the  raising  of  the  curtain,  and  he  had 


392  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

forgotten  all  offences  and  had  taken  his  companion  into 
favour  again,  and  was  talking  to  Uncle  John  between  the 
acts  with  all  the  excitement  of  a  country  youth  to  whom 
a  play  still  was  the  greatest  of  novelties  and  delights, 
when  he  suddenly  saw  a  change  come  over  John  Tathaiu's 
countenance  and  a  slight  bow  of  recognition  directed 
towards  a  box,  which  made  Philip  turn  round  and  look 
too.  And  there  was  the  old  witch  of  the  carriage,  and, 
what  was  more  interesting,  the  girl  with  the  keen  eyes, 
who  looked  out  suddenly  from  the  shade  of  the  draperies, 
and  fixed  upon  Philip — Philip  himself — a  look  which 
startled  that  young  hero  much.  Nor  was  this  all ;  for 
later  in  the  evening,  after  another  act  of  the  play,  some 
one  else  appeared  in  the  same  box,  and  fixed  the  daik 
and  impassive  stare  of  a  long  pair  of  opera-glasses  upon 
Philip.  It  amused  him  at  first,  and  afterwards  it  halt 
frightened  him,  and  finally  made  him  very  angry.  The 
gazer  was  a  man,  of  whom,  however,  Philip  could  make 
nothing  out  but  his  white  shirt  front  and  his  tall  stature, 
and  the  long  black  tubes  of  the  opera-glass.  Was  it  at 
him  the  man  was  looking,  or  perhaps  at  Uncle  John  ? 
But  the  boy  thought  it  on  the  whole  unlikely  that  any- 
body should  stare  in  that  way  at  anything  so  little  out 
of  the  ordinary  as  Uncle  John. 

"I  say,"  he  said,  in  the  next  interval,  "who  is  that 
fellow  staring  at  us  out  of  your  old  lady's  box  ?  " 

"Staring  at  the  ladies  behind  us,  you  mean,"  said 
John.  "  Pippo,  do  you  think  we  could  make  a  rush  for 
it  the  moment  the  play's  over  ?  I've  got  something  to 
look  over  when  I  get  home.  Are  you  game  to  be  out 
the  very  first  before  the  curtain's  down  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I'm  game,"  said  Philip,  delighted,  "  if  you 
wish  it,  Uncle  John." 

"Yes,  I  wish  it,"  said  the  other,  and  he  put  his  hand 
on  the  boy's  shoulder  as  the  act  finished  and  the  char- 
acters of  the  piece  drew  together  for  the  final  tableau. 
And  the  pair  managed  it  triumphantly,  and  were  the 
very  first  to  get  out  at  the  head  of  the  crowd,  to  Philip's 
immense  amusement  and  John  Tatham's  great  relief. 
The  elder  hurried  the  younger  into  the  first  hansom,  nil 


THE  MARRIAf  ,' JXOR.  393 

in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  :  and  then  for  the  first  time 
:-uvity  relaxed.  Philip  took  it  all  for  a  great  joke 
till  they  reached  Ebury  Street.  But  wheu  his  com- 
panion left  him,  and  he  had  time  to  think  of  it,  he  began 
to  ask  himself  why  ? 


CHAPTER  XLIL 

I  WILL  not  say  that  Philip's  sleep  was  broken  by  this 
question,  but  it  undoubtedly  recurred  to  his  mind  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning  when  he  jumped  out  of  bed 
very  late  for  breakfast,  and  the  events  of  the  past 
night  and  the  lateness  of  the  hour  at  which  he  got  to 
rest  came  back  upon  him  as  excuses  in  the  first  place 
for  his  tardiness.  And  then,  which  was  remarkable,  it 
was  not  the  scene  in  the  play  in  which  he  had  been 
most  interested  which  came  to  his  mind,  but  a  vision 
of  that  box  and  the  man  standing  in  front  of  it  staring 
at  him  through  the  black  tubes  of  the  opera-glass 
which  came  before  Philip  like  a  picture.  Uncle  John 
had  said  it  was  at  the  ladies  behind,  but  the  boy  felt 
sure  it  was  no  lady  behind,  but  himself,  on  whom  that 
stare  was  fixed.  Who  would  care  to  stare  so  at  him  ? 
It  faintly  gleamed  across  his  thoughts  that  it  might  bo 
some  one  who  had  heard  of  the  scholarship,  but  he  dis- 
missed that  thought  instantly  with  a  blush.  It  also 
gleamed  upon  him  with  equal  vagueness  like  a  momen- 
tary but  entirely  futile  light,  consciously  derived  from 
story  books,  and  of  which  he  was  much  ashamed,  that 
the  inexplicable  attention  given  to  himself  might  have 
something  to  do  with  the  girl  who  had  such  keen  eyes. 
Philip  blushed  fiery  red  at  this  involuntary  thought, 
and  chased  it  from  his  mind  like  a  mad  dog ;  but  he 
could  not  put  away  the  picture  of  the  box,  the  girl  put- 
ting aside  the  curtain  to  look  at  him,  and  the  OIK  in- 
glass  fixed  upon  his  face.  And  then  why  was  Uncle 
John  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  away?  It  had  seemed  a 
capital  joke  at  that  moment,  but  when  he  came  to  think 


M±  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

of  it,  it  was  rather  strange  that  a  man  who  might  be 
Solicitor-General  to-morrow  if  he  liked,  and  probably 
Lord  Chancellor  in  a  few  years,  should  make  a  school- 
boy rush  from  the  stalls  of  a  theatre  with  the  object  of 
being  first  out.  Philip  disapproved  of  so  undignified 
a  step  on  the  part  of  his  elderly  relation.  And  he  saw 
now  in  the  serious  morning  that  Uncle  John  was  very 
unlikely  to  have  done  it  for  fun.  What,  then,  did  it 
mean  ? 

He  came  down  full  of  these  thoughts,  and  rather 
ashamed  of  being  late,  wondering  whether  his  mother 
would  have  waited  for  him  (which  would  have  annoyed 
him),  or  if  she  would  have  finished  her  breakfast  (which 
would  have  annoyed  him  still  more).  Happily  for 
Elinor,  she  had  hit  the  golden  mean,  and  was  pouring 
out  for  herself  a  second  cup  of  coffee  (but  Philip  was 
not  aware  it  was  the  second)  when  the  boy  appeared. 
She  was  quite  restored  to  her  usual  serenity  and  fresh- 
ness, and  as  eager  to  know  how  he  had  enjoyed  himself 
as  she  always  was.  He  gave  her  a  brief  sketch  of  the 
play  and  of  what  pleased  him  in  it  as  in  chity  bound. 
"  But,"  he  added,  "  what  interested  me  almost  more 
was  that  we  had  a  sort  of  a — little  play  of  our  own." 

"What?"  she  cried,  with  a  startled  look  in  her  eyes. 
One  thing  that  puzzled  him  was  that  she  was  so  very 
easily  startled,  which  it  seemed  to  Philip  had  never 
been  the  case  before. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  the  lady  was  there  whom  Uncle 
John  met  in  the  park — and  the  girl  with  her — and  I 
believe  the  little  dog.  She  made  all  sorts  of  signs  to 
him,  but  he  took  scarcely  any  notice.  But  that's  not 
all,  mother 

"It's  a  good  deal,  Pippo ' 

"Is  it?  Why  do  you  speak  in  that  choked  voice, 
mother?  I  suppose  it  is  just  one  of  his  society  ac- 
quaintances. But  the  thing  was  that  before  the  last  act 
somebody  else  came  forward  to  the  front  of  the  box, 
and  fixed — I  was  going  to  say  his  eyes,  I  mean  his 
opera-glasses  upon  us." 

Philip  had  meant  to  say  upon  me — but  he  had  pro? 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF   ELINOR.  395 

duced  already  so  great  an  effect  on  his  mother's  face 
that  he  moderated  instinctively  the  point  of  this  de- 
scription. "And  stared  at  us,"  he  added,  "all  the 
rest  of  the  time,  paying  not  the  least  attention  to  any- 
thing that  was  going  on.  It's  a  queer  sensation,"  he 
went  on,  with  a  laugh,  "  to  feel  that  black  mysterious- 
looking  thing  like  the  eyes  of  some  monster  with  no 
speculation  in  them,  fixed  upon  you.  Now,  I  want  you 
to  tell  me What's  the  matter,  mother  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  Pippo ;  nothing,"  said  Elinor,  faintly, 
stooping  to  lift  up  a  book  she  had  let  fall.  "  Go  ou 
with  your  story.  I  am  very  much  interested  ;  and 
.then,  my  dear  ?  " 

"Mother,"  cried  Philip,  "I  don't  know  what  has 
come  over  you,  or  over  me.  There's  something  going 
on  I  can't  understand.  You  never  used  to  have  any 
secrets  from  me.  I  was  always  in  your  confidence — 
wasn't  I,  mother  ?  " 

It  was  not  a  book  she  had  let  fall,  but  a  ring  that 
she  had  dropped  from 'her  finger,  and  which  had  to  be 
followed  over  the  carpet.  It  made  her  red  and  flushed 
when  she  half  raised  her  head  to  say,  "Yes,  Pippo — 
you  know — I  have  always  told  you " 

Philip  did  not  remark  that  what  his  mother  said  was 
nothing  after  all.  He  got  up  to  help  her  to  look  for 
her  ring,  and  put  his  arm  round  her  waist  as  she  knelt 
on  the  floor. 

"  Yes,  mamma,"  he  said,  tenderly,  protectingly,  "  I 
do  know  :  but  something's  changed  ;  either  it's  in  me 
that  makes  you  feel  you  can't  trust  me — or  else  it  is  in 
you.  And  I  don't  know  which  would  be  worst." 

"There  is  no  change,"  she  said,  after  a  moment,  for 
she  could  not  help  the  ring  being  found,  and  immedi- 
ately when  his  quick,  young  eyes  came  to  the  search  : 
but  she  did  not  look  him  in  the  face.  "There  is  no 
change,  dear.  There  is  only  some  worrying  business 
which  involves  a  great  many  troubles  of  my  old  life  be- 
fore you  were  born.  You  shall  hear — everything — in  a 
little  while  :  but  I  cannot  enter  into  it  all  at  this  mo- 
ment. It  is  full  of  complications  and — secrets  that 


39fi  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

belong  to  other  people.  Pippo,  you  must  promise  me 
to  wait  patiently,  and  to  believe — to  believe — always 
the  best  you  can — of  your  mother." 

The  boy  laughed  as  be  raised  her  up,  still  holding 
her  with  his  arm.  "  Believe  the  best  I  can  1  Well,  I 
don't  think  that  will  be  a  great  effort,  mother.  Only 
to  think  that  you  can't  trust  me  as  you  always  have 
done  makes  me  wretched.  We've  been  such  friends, 
haven't  we,  mamma  ?  I've  always  told  you  everything, 
or  at  least  everything  except  just  the  nonsense  at 
school :  and  you've  told  me  everything.  And  if  we 
tire  going  to  be  different  now — 

"  You've  told  me  everything  !  "  the  boy  was  as  sure 
of  it  as  that  he  was  born.  She  had  to  hold  by  him  to 
support  herself,  and  it  cost  her  a  strong  effort  to  re- 
strain the  shiver  that  ran  through  her.  "  We  are  not 
going  to  be  different,"  she  said,  "  as  soon  as  we  leave 
London — or  before — you  shall  know  everything  about 
this  business  of  mine,  Pippo.  Will  that  satisfy  you? 
In  the  meantime  it  is  not  pleasant  business,  dear  ;  and 
you  must  bear  with  me  if  I  am  abstracted  sometimes, 
and  occupied,  and  cross." 

"But,  mother,"  said  Philip,  bending  over  her  with 
that  young  celestial  foolish  look  of  gravity  and  good 
advice  with  which  a  neophyte  will  sometimes  address 
the  much-experienced  and  heavily-laden  pilgrim,  "  don't 
you  think  it  would  be  easier  if  it  was  all  open  between 
us,  and  I  took  my  share  ?  If  it  is  other  people's  se- 
crets I  would  not  betray  them,  you  know  that." 

Unfortunately  Elinor  here  murmured,  scarcely  know- 
ing what  words  came  from  her  lips,  "That  is  what 
John  says." 

"John,"  said  the  boy,  furious  with  the  quick  rage  of 
injured  tenderness  and  pride,  "  Uncle  John  !  and  you 
tell  him  more,  him,  an  outsider,  than  you  tell  me !  " 

He  let  her  go  then,  which  was  a  great  relief  to  Eli- 
nor, for  she  could  command  herself  better  when  he 
was  a  little  farther  off,  and  could  not  feel  the  thrill  that 
was  in  her,  and  the  thumping  of  her  heart. 

"You  must  remember,  Pippo,"  she   said,   "what  I 


THE  MARRIAGE   <>F  ELINOR.  397 

have  told  you,  that  my  present  very  disagreeable,  very 
painful  business  is  about  things  that  happened  before 
you  were  born,  which  John  knew  everything  about. 
He  was  my  adviser  then,  as  far  as  I  would  take  any  ad- 
vice, which  I  am  afraid  never  was  much,  Pippo,"  she 
said  ;  "  never,  alas  !  all  rny  life.  Granny  will  tell  you 
that.  But  John,  always  the  kindest  friend  and  the 
best  brother  in  the  world,  did  everything  he  could. 
And  it  would  have  been  better  for  us  all  if  I  had  taken 
his  advice  instead  of  always,  I  fear,  always  my  own  way." 

Strangely  enough  this  cheered  Pippo  and  swept  the 
tloud  from  his  face.  "  I'm  glad  you  didn't  take  any- 
body's advice,  mother.  I  shouldn't  have  liked  it.  I've 
more  faith  in  you  than  anybody.  Well,  then,  now 
about  this  man.  What  man  in  the  world — I  really 
mean  in  the  world,  in  what  is  called  society,  for  that  is 
the  kind  of  people  they  were — could  have  such  a  curi- 
osity about — me  ?  " 

She  had  resumed  her  seat,  and  her  face  was  turned 
away  from  him.  Also  the  exquisite  tone  of  complacen- 
cy and  innocent  self-appreciation  with  which  Philip  ex- 
pressed this  wonder  helped  her  a  little  to  surmount 
the  situation.  Elinor  could  have  laughed  had  her  heart 
been  only  a  trifle  less  burdened.  She  said  :  "  Are  you 
sure  it  was  at  you  ?  " 

"  Uncle  John  said  something  about  ladies  behind  us, 
but  I  am  sure  it  was  no  ladies  behind.  It  might,  of 
course,"  the  boy  added,  cautiously,  "have  been  him, 
you  know.  I  suppose  Uncle  John's  a  personage,  isn't 
he  ?  But  after  all,  you  know,  hang  it,  mother,  it  isn't 
easy  to  believe  that  a  fellow  like  that  would  stare  so  at 
Uncle  John." 

"  Poor  John  !  It  is  true  there  is  not  much  novelty 
about  him,"  said  Elinor,  with  a  tremble  in  her  voice, 
which,  if  it  was  half  agitation,  was  yet  a  little  laughter 
too :  for  there  are  scarcely  any  circumstances,  however 
painful,  in  which  those  who  are  that  way  moved  by 
nature  are  quite  able  to  quench  the  unconquerable 
laugh.  She  added,  with  a  falter  in  which  there  was  no 
laughter,  "and  what — was  the — fellow  like?" 


398  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

"All  that  I  could  see  was  that  be  was  a  tall  man.  I 
saw  Ins  large  shirt-front  and  his  black  evening  clothes, 
and  something  like  grey  hair  above  those  two  big,  black 
goggles " 

"Grey  hair!"  Elinor  said,  with  a  low  suppressed  cry. 

"  He  never  took  them  away  from  his  eyes  for  a  mo- 
ment, so  of  course  I  could  not  see  his  face,  or  anything 
much  except  that  he  was  more  than  common  tall — like 
myself,"  Pippo  said,  with  a  little  air  of  pleased  vanity  in 
the  comparison. 

Like  himself  !  She  did  not  make  any  remark.  It  is 
very  doubtful  whether  she  could  have  done  so.  There 
came  before  her  so  many  visions  of  the  past,  and  such 
a  vague,  confused,  bewildering  future,  of  which  she 
could  form  no  definite  idea  what  it  would  be.  Was  it 
with  a  pang  that  she  foresaw  that  drawing  towards  an- 
other influence :  that  mingled  instinct,  curiosity,  per- 
haps admiration  and  wonder,  which  already  seemed  to 
move  her  boy's  unconscious  mind?  Elinor  did  not 
even  know  whether  that  would  hurt  her  at  all.  Even 
now  there  seemed  a  curious  pungent  sense  of  half- 
pleasure  in  the  pain.  Like  himself  !  So  he  was.  And 
if  it  should  be  that  it  was  his  father,  who  for  hours  had 
stood  there,  not  taking  his  eyes  off  the  boy  (for  hours 
her  imagination  said,  though  Pippo  had  not  said  so), 
his  father  who  had  known  where  she  was  and  never 
disturbed  her,  never  interfered  with  her  ;  the  man  who 
had  summoned  her  to  perform  her  martyrdom  for  him, 
never  doubting — Phil,  with  grey  hair  !  To  say  what 
mingled  feelings  swept  through  Elinor's  mind,  with  all 
these  elements  in  them,  is  beyond  my  power.  She  saw 
him  with  his  face  concealed,  standing  up  unconscious 
of  the  crowded  place  and  of  the  mimic  life  on  the  strge, 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  son  whom  he  had  never  seen 
before.  Where  was  there  any  drama  in  which  there 
was  a  scene  like  this?  His  son,  his  only  child,  the 
heir  !  Unconsciously  even  to  herself  that  fact  had  some 
influence,  no  doubt,  on  Elinor's  thoughts.  And  it 
would  be  impossible  to  say  how  much  influence  had 
that  unexpected  subduing  touch  of  the  grey  hair  :  and 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELIXOR.  399 

the  strange  change  in  the  scene  altogether.  The  fool- 
ish, noisy,  "  fast "  woman,  with  her  tourbillon  of  men 
and  dogs  about  her,  turned  into  the  old  lady  of  Pippo's 
careless  remark,  with  her  daughter  beside  her  far  more 
important  than  she  :  and  the  tall  figure  in  the  front  of 

the  box,  with  grey  hair 

Young  Philip  had  not  the  faintest  light  or  guidance 
in  the  discovery  of  his  mother's  thoughts.  He  was 
much  more  easy  and  comfortable  now  that  there  had 
been  an  explanation  between  them,  though  it  was  one  of 
those  explanations  which  explained  nothing.  He  even 
forgave  Uncle  John  for  knowing  more  than  he  did, 
moved  thereto  by  the  consolatory  thought  that  John's 
advice  had  never  been  taken,  and  that  his  mother  had 
always  followed  her  own  way.  This  was  an  incalcu- 
lable comfort  to  Pippo's  mind,  and  gave  him  composure 
to  wait  calmly  for  the  clearing  up  of  the  mystery,  and 
the  restoration  of  that  perfect  confidence  between  his 
mother  aud  himself  which  he  was  so  firmly  convinced 
had  existed  all  his  life.  He  was  a  great  deal  happier 
after,  and  gave  her  an  excellent  account  of  the  play, 
which  he  had  managed  to  see  quite  satisfactorily,  not- 
withstanding the  other  "  little  play  of  our  own  "  which 
ran  through  everything.  At  Philip's  age  one  can  see 
two  things  at  once  well  enough.  I  knew  a  boy  who  at 
one  and  the  same  moment  got  the  benefit  of  (1st)  his 
own  story  book,  which  he  read  lying  at  full  length  be- 
fore the  fire,  half  buried  in  the  fur  of  a  great  rug  ;  and 
(2nd)  of  the  novel  which  was  being  read  out  over  his 
head  for  the  benefit  of  the  other  members  of  the  family 
— or  at  least  he  strenuously  asserted  he  did,  and  indeed 
proved  himself  acquainted  with  both.  Philip  in  the 
same  way  had  taken  in  everything  in  the  play,  even 
while  his  soul  was  intent  upon  the  opera-glass  in  the 
box.  He  had  not  missed  anything  of  either.  He  gave 
an  account  of  the  first,  from  which  the  drama  might 
have  been  written  down  had  fate  destroyed  it  :  and  had 
noticed  the  minauderies  of  the  heroine,  and  the.  eager 
determination  not  to  be  second  to  her  in  anything 
which  distinguished  the  first  gentleman,  as  if  lie  had 


400  THE  MARRLAdE   Ob'   KL1SOR. 

nothing  else  in  his  mind  :  while  all  the  time  he  h;ul 
been  under  the  fascination  of  the  two  black  eyeholes 
brn</ ii.es  upon  him,  the  mysterious  gaze  as  of  a  ghost 
from  eyes  which  he  never  saw. 

This  occupied  some  part  of  the  forenoon,  and  Philip 
was  happy.  But  when  he  had  completed  his  tale  and 
began  to  feel  the  necessity  of  going  out,  and  remem- 
bered that  he  had  nowhere  to  go  and  nothing  to  do, 
the  prospect  was  not  alluring.  He  tried  very  hard  to 
persuade  his  mother  to  go  out  with  him,  but  this  was  a 
risk  from  which  Elinor  shrank.  She  shrank,  too,  from 
his  proposal  at  last  to  go  out  to  the  park  by  himself. 

"  To  the  Eow.  I  sha'n't  know  the  people  except 
those  who  are  in  launch  every  week,  and  I  shall  envy  the 
fellows  riding — but  at  least  it  will  be  something  to  see." 

"I  wish  you  would  not  go  to  the  Row,  Pippo." 

"Why,  mother?  Doesn't  everybody  go  ?  And  you 
never  were  here  at  this  time  of  the  year  before." 

"  No,"  she  said,  with  a  long  breath  of  despair.  No  ; 
of  all  times  of  the  year  this  was  the  one  in  which  she 
had  never  risked  him  in  London.  And,  oh  !  that  he 
had  been  anywhere  iu  the  world  except  London  now ! 

Philip,  who  had  been  watching  her  countenance  with 
great  interest,  here  patted  her  on  the  shoulder  with 
condescending,  almost  paternal,  kindness.  "  Don't  you 
be  frightened,  mother.  I'll  not  get  into  any  mischief. 
I'll  neither  be  rode  over,  nor  robbed,  nor  run  away.  Ill 
take  as  great  care  of  myself  as  if  you  had  been  there." 

"I'm  not  afraid  that  you  will  be  ridden  over  or 
robbed,"  she  said,  forcing  a  smile  ;  "but  there  is  one 
thing,  Pippo.  Don't  talk  to  anybody  whom  you — don't 
know.  Don't  let  yourself  be  drawn  into —  If  you 
should  meet,  for  instance,  that  lady — who  was  in  the 
theatre  last  night." 

"Yes,  mother?" 

"  Don't  let  her  make  acquaintance  with  j'ou  ;  don't 
speak  to  her,  nor  the  girl,  nor  any  one  that  may  be  with 
her.  At  the  risk  even  of  being  uncivil 

"  Why,  mother,"  he  said,  elevating  his  eyebrov.'s, 
" how  could  I  be  uncivil  to  a  lady?" 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR.  401 

"  Because  I  tell  you,"  she  cried,  "  because  you  must 
— because  I  shall  sit  here  in  terror  counting  every  mo- 
ment till  you  conie  back,  if  you  don't  promise  me  this." 

He  looked  at  her  with  the  most  wondering  counte- 
nance, half  disapproving,  half  pitying.  Was  she  going 
mad?  what  was  happening  to  her?  was  she  after  all, 
though  his  mother,  no  better  than  the  jealous  foolish 
women  in  books,  who  endeavoured  at  all  costs  to  sepa- 
rate their  children  from  every  influence  but  their  own  ? 
How  could  Pippo  think  such  things  of  his  mother?  and 
yet  what  else  could  he  think  ? 

"  I  had  better,"  he  said,  "  if  that  is  how  you  feel, 
mother,  not  go  to  the  Row  at  all." 

"Much  better,  much  better!"  she  cried.  "I'll  tell 
you  what  we'll  do,  Pippo — you  have  never  been  to  see 
— the  Tower."  She  had  run  over  all  the  most  far-off 
and  unlikely  places  in  her  mind,  and  this  occurred  to 
her  as  the  most  impossible  of  all  to  attract  any  visitor 
of  whom  she  could  be  afraid.  "  I  have  changed  my 
mind,"  she  added.  "  We'll  have  a  hansom,  and  I  will 
go  with  you  to  see  the  Tower." 

"So  long  as  you  go  with  me,"  said  Pippo,  "I  don't 
care  where  I  go." 

And  -they  set  out  almost  joyfully  as  in  their  old  happy 
expeditious  of  old,  for  that  long  drive  through  London 
in  the  hausoni.  And  yet  the  boy  was  only  lulled  for 
the  moment,  and  in  his  heart  was  more  and  more  per- 
plexed what  his  mother  could  mean. 


CHAPTER    XLIK 

FORTUNE  was  favourable  to  Elinor  that  day.  At  the 
Tower,  where  she  duly  went  over  everything  that  was 
to  be  seen  with  Pippo,  conscious  all  the  time  of  his 
keen  observance  of  her  through  all  that  he  was  doing, 
and  even  through  his  interest  in  what  he  saw — and  feel- 
ing for  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  there  was  between 

26 


402  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

her  boy  and  her  something  that  he  felt,  something  that 
was  not  explained  by  anything  she  had  said,  and  that 
awaited  the  dreadful  moment  when  everything  would 
have  to  be  told — at  the  Tower,  as  I  say,  they  met  some 
friends  from  -the  north,  the  rector  of  the  parish,  who 
had  come  up  with  his  son  to  see  town,  and  was  natu- 
rally taking  his  boy,  as  Elinor  took  hers,  to  see  all  that 
was  not  town,  in  the  usual  sense  of  the  word.  They 
were  going  to  Woolwich  and  Greenwich  next  day,  and 
with  a  pang  of  mingled  trouble  and  relief  in  her  mind 
Elinor  contrived  to  engage  Pippo  to  accompany  them. 
On  the  second  day  I  think  they  were  to  go  to  St.  Kath- 
eriue's  Docks,  or  the  Isle  of  Dogs,  or  some  other  equally 
important  and  interesting  sight — far  better  no  doubt 
for  the  two  youths  than  to  frequent  such  places  as  the 
Bow,  and  gaze  at  the  stream  of  gaiety  and  luxury  which 
they  could  not  join.  Pippo  in  ordinary  circumstances 
would  have  been  delighted  to  see  Woolwich  and  the 
docks — but  it  was  so  evident  to  him  that  his  mother 
was  anxiously  desirous  to  dispose  of  him  so,  that  his 
satisfaction  was  much  lessened.  The  boy,  however, 
was  magnanimous  enough  to  consent  without  any  ap- 
pearance of  reluctance.  In  the  many  thoughts  which 
filled  his  mind  Philip  showed  his  fine  nature,  by  having 
already  come  to  consent  to  the  possibility  that  his 
mother  might  have  business  of  her  own  into  which  he 
had  no  right  to  enter  unless  at  her  own  time  and  with 
her  full  consent.  It  cost  him  an  effort,  I  allow,  to  come 
to  that :  but  yet  he  did  so,  and  resolved,  a  little  pride 
helping  him,  to  inquire  no  more,  and  if  possible  to 
wonder  or  be  offended  no  more,  but  to  wait  the  time 
she  had  promised,  when  the  old  rule  of  perfect  confi- 
dence should  be  re-established  between  them.  The 
old  rule !  if  Pippo  had  but  known  !  nothing  yet  had 
given  Elinor  such  a  sense  of  guilt  as  his  conviction  that 
she  had  told  him  everything,  that  there  had  been  no 
secrets  between  them  during  all  the  happy  life  that  was 
past. 

How  entirely  relieved  Elinor  was  when  he  started  to 
Join  his  friends  next  morning  it  would  be  impossible  to 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  403 

put  into  words.     She  watched  all  his  lingering  move- 
ments before  he  went  with  eyes  in  which  she  tried  to 
quench  the  impatience,  and  look  only  with  the  fond  ad- 
miration and  interest  she  felt  upon  all  his  little  prepara- 
tions,   his   dawning    sense    of  what  was  becoming    in 
apparel,    the  flower  in   his   coat,    the  carefully   rolled 
umbrella,  the  hat  brushed  to  the  most  exquisite  smooth- 
ness, the  handkerchief  just  peeping  from  his  breast- 
pocket.    It  is  always  a  revelation  to  a  woman  to  find 
that  these  details  occupy  as  much  of  a  young  man's 
attention  as  her  own  toilette  occupies  hers  ;  and  that  he 
is  as  tremulously  alive  to  "what  is  worn  "  in  many  small 
particulars  that  never  catch  her  eye,  as  she  is  to  details 
which  entirely  escape  him.     She  smiles  at  him  as  he 
does  at  her,  each  in  that  conscious  superiority  to  the 
other,  which  is  on  the  whole  an  indulgent  sentiment. 
Underneath  all  her  anxiety  to  see  him  go,  to  get  rid  of 
him  (was  that  the  dreadful  truth  in  this  terrible  crisis 
of  her  affairs?),  she  felt  the  amusement  of   the  boy's 
little   coquetries,    and  the  mother's  admiration  of  his 
fresh  looks,  his  youthful  brightness,  his  air  of  distinc- 
tion ;  how  different  from  the  Rector's  boy,  who  was  a 
nice  fellow  enough,  and  a  credit  to  his  rectory,  and 
whose  mother,  I  do  not  doubt,  felt  in  his  ruddy  good 
looks   something    much   superior  in   robustness,    and 
strength,  and  manhood  to  the  too-tall  and  too-slight 
golden  youth  of  the  ladies  at  Lakeside  !     It  even  flitted 
across  Elinor's  mind  to  give  him  within  herself  the  title 
that  was  to  be  his,  everybody  said — Lord  Lomond !  And 
then  she  asked  herself  indignantly  what  honour  it  could 
add  to  her  spotless  boy  to  have  such  a  vain  distinction  ; 
a  name  that  had  been  soiled  by  BO  much  ignoble  use  ? 
Elinor  had  prided  herself  all  her  life  on  an  indifference 
to,  almost  a  contempt  for,  the  distinctions  of  rank  :  and 
that  it  should  occur  to  her  to  think  of  that  title  as  an 
embellishment  to  Pippo — nay,  to  think  furtively,  with- 
out her  own  knowledge,  so  to  speak,  that  Pippo  looked 
every  inch  a  lord  and  heir  to  a  peerage,  was  an  invol- 
untary weakness   almost  incredible.     She  blushed  for 
herself  as  she  realised  it : — a  peerage  which  had  meant 


-I o-i  Tin-:  v.\nni.-\ni-;  or 

so  little  that  was  excellent — a  name  connected  with  so 
many  undesirable  precedents  :  still  I  suppose  when  it  is 
his  own  even  the  veriest  democrat  is  conscious  at  least 
of  the  pictuiesqueness,  the  superiority,  as  a  mode  of 
distinguishing  one  man  from  another,  of  anything 
that  can  in  the  remotest  sense  be  called  a  historical 
name. 

When  Pippo  was  out  of  sight  Elinor  turned  from  the 
window  with  a  sigh,  and  came  back  to  the  dark  chamber 
of  her  own  life,  full  at  this  moment  of  all  the  gathered 
blackness  of  the  past  and  of  the  future.  She  put  her 
hands  over  her  eyes,  and  sank  down  upon  a  seat,  as  if 
to  shut  out  from  herself  all  that  was  before  her.  But 
shut  it  out  as  she  might,  there  it  was — the  horrible  court 
with  the  judgment-seat,  the  rows  of  faces  bent  upon  her, 
the  silence  through  which  her  own  voice  must  rise  alone, 
saying — what  ?  What  was  it  she  was  called  there  to  say  1 
Oh,  how  little  they  knew  who  suggested  that  her  mother 
should  have  been  called  instead  of  her,  with  all  her 
minute  old-fashioned  calculations  and  exact  memory, 
who  even  now,  when  all  was  over,  would  probably  con- 
vict Elinor  of  a  mistake  !  Even  at  that  penalty  what 
would  not  she  give  to  kave  it  over,  the  thing  said,  the 
event  done  with,  whatever  it  might  bring  after  it !  And 
it  could  now  be  only  a  very  short  time  till  the  moment 
of  the  ordeal  would  come,  when  she  should  stand  up  in 
the  face  of  her  country,  before  the  solemn  judge  on  his 
bench,  before  all  the  gaping,  wondering  people — before, 
oh  !  thought  most  dreadful  of  all,  which  we  would  not, 
could  not,  contemplate — before  one  who  knew  every- 
thing, and  say—  -  She  picked  herself  up  trembling  as 
it  were,  and  uncovered  her  eyes,  and  protested  to  her- 
self that  she  would  say  nothing  that  was  not  true.  Noth- 
ing that  was  not  true  !  She  would  tell  her  story — 
so  well  remembered,  so  often  conned  ;  that  story  that 
had  been  put  into  her  lips  twenty  years  ago  which 
she  had  repeated  then  confused,  not  knowing  how  it 
was  that  what  was  a  simple  fact  should  neverthe- 
less not  be  true.  Alas  !  she  knew  that  very  well  now, 
and  yet  would  have  to  repeat  it  before  God  and 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELTXOR.  405 

the  world.  But  thinking  would  make  it  no  better 
— thinking  could  only  make  it  worse.  She  sprang  up 
again,  and  began  to  occupy  herself  with  something 
she  had  to  do  :  the  less  it  was  thought  over  the  better : 
for  now  the  trial  had  begun,  and  her  ordeal  would  soon 
be  done  too.  If  only  the  boy  could  be  occupied,  kept 
away — if  only  she  could  be  left  alone  to  do  what  she 
had  to  do  !  That  he  should  be  there  was  the  last  aggra- 
vation of  which  her  fate  was  capable  ;  there  in  idleness, 
reading  the  papers  in  the  morning,  which  was  a  thing 
she  had  so  lately  calculated  a  boy  at  school  was  unlikely 
to  do  ;  and  what  so  likely  as  that  his  eye  would  be 
caught  by  his  own  name  in  the  report  of  the  trial,  which 
would  be  an  exciting  trial  and  fully  reported — a  trial 
which  interested  society.  The  boy  would  see  his  o\vn 
name :  she  could  almost  hear  him  cry  out,  looking  up 
from  his  breakfast,  "  Hallo,  mother  !  here's  something 
about  a  Philip  Conipton  !  "  And  all  the  questions  that 
would  follow — "Is  he  the  same  Comptons  that  we  are? 
What  Comptons  do  we  belong  to  ?  You  never  told  me 
anything  about  inv  family.  Is  this  man  any  relation,  I 

*.  t/  m  • 

wonder?  Both  surname  and  Christian  name  the  same. 
It's  strange  if  there  is  no  connection  !  "  She  could 
almost  hear  the  words  he  would  say — all  that  and  more 
— and  what  should  she  reply  ? 

"  I  have  only  one  thing  to  say,  Elinor,"  said  John,  to 
whom  in  her  desperation  she  turned  again,  as  she  always 
did,  disturbing  him,  poor  man,  in  his  chambers  as  he  was 
collecting  his  notes  and  his  thoughts  in  the  afternoon 
after  his  work  was  over  :  "it  is  the  same  as  I  have  al- 
ways said  ;  even  now  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  to  the 
boy.  Tell  him  everything  ;  better  that  he  should  hear 
it  from  your  own  lips  than  that  it  should  burst  upon 
him  as  a  discovery.  He  has  but  to  meet  Lady 
Mariamne  in  the  park,  the  most  likely  thing  in  the 
world " 

"No,  John,"  cried  Elinor,  "no;  the  Marshalls  are 
here,  our  Rector  from  Lakeside,  and  he  is  taking  his 
boy  to  see  all  the  sights.  I  have  got  Pippo  to  go  with 
them.  They  are  going  to  Woolwich  to-day,  and  after- 


406  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

wards  to  quite  a  long  list  of  things — oh,  entirely  out  of 
everybody's  way." 

Her  little  look  of  uneasy  triumph  and  satisfaction 
made  John  smile.  She  was  not  half  so  sure  as  she 
tried  to  look  ;  but,  all  the  same,  had  a  little  pride,  a  lit- 
tle pleasure  in  her  own  management,  and  in  the  happy 
chance  of  the  Marshalls  being  in  London,  which  was  a 
thing  that  could  not  have  been  planned,  an  interven- 
tion of  Providence.  He  could  not  refuse  to  smile — 
partly  with  her,  partly  at  her  simplicity — but,  all  the 
same,  he  shook  his  head. 

"The  only  way- in  which  there  is  any  safety — the 
only  chance  of  preserving  him  from  a  shock,  a  painful 
shock,  Elinor,  that  may  upset  him  for  life — 

"  How  do  you  mean,  upset  him  for  life  ?  " 

"  By  showing  him  that  his  mother,  whom  he  believes 
in  like  heaven,  has  deceived  him  since  ever  he  was  born." 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  burst  into 
a  sobbing  cry.  "  Oh,  John,  you  don't  know  how  true 
that  is !  He  said  to  me  only  yesterday,  '  You  have  al- 
ways told  me  everything,  mother.  There  has  never 
been  any  secret  between  us.'  Oh  !  John,  John,  only 
think  of  having  that  said  to  me,  and  knowing  what  I 
know ! " 

"  Well,  Elinor  ;  believe  me,  my  dear,  there  is  but 
one  thing  to  do.  The  boy  is  a  good  boy,  full  of  love 
and  kindness." 

"  Oh,  isn't  he,  John  ?  the  best  boy,  the  dearest — 

"And  adores  his  mother,  as  a  boy  should."  John 
got  up  from  his  chair  and  walked  about  the  room  for 
a  little,  and  then  he  came  behind  her  and  put  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder.  "  Tell  him,  Elinor  :  my  dear  Kelly, 
as  if  I  had  never  said  a  word  on  the  subject  before,  I 
beseech  you  tell  him,  trust  him  fully,  even  now,  at  the 
eleventh  hour." 

She  raised  her  head  with  a  quivering,  wistful  smile. 
"  The  moment  the  trial  is  over,  the  moment  it  is  over  J 
I  give  you  my  word,  John." 

"  Do  not  wait  till  it  is  over,  do  it  now  ;  to-night 
when  he  comes  home." 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  407 

She  began  to  tremble  so  that  John  Tatham  was 
alarmed — and  kept  looking  at  him  with  an  imploring 
look,  her  lips  quivering  and  every  line  in  her  counte- 
nance. "  Oh,  not  to-night.  Spare  me  to-night !  After 
the  trial ;  after  my  part  of  it.  At  least — after — after — 
oh,  give  me  till  to-morrow  to  think  of  it !  " 

"  My  dear  Elinor,  I  count  for  nothing  in  it.  I  am 
not  your  judge  ;  I  am  your  partisan,  you  know,  whatever 
you  clo.  But  I  am  sure  it  will  be  the  better  done,  and 
even  the  easier  done,  the  sooner  you  do  it." 

"I  will — I  will:  at  the  very  latest  the  day  after  I 
have  done  my  part  at  the  trial.  Is  not  that  enough  to 
think  of  at  one  time,  for  a  poor  woman  who  has  never 
stood  up  before  the  public  in  all  her  life,  never  had  a 
question  put  to  her  ?  Oh,  John  !  oh,  John  !  " 

"Elinor,  Elinor!  you  are  too  sensible  a  woman  to 
make  a  fuss  about  a  simple  duty  like  this." 

"  There  speaks  the  man  who  has  stood  before  the 
world  all  his  life,  and  is  not  afraid  of  any  public,"  she 
said,  with  a  tremulous  laugh.  But  she  had  won  her 
moment's  delay,  and  thus  was  victorious  after  a  fashion, 
as  it  was  her  habit  to  be. 

I  do  not  know  that  young  Philip  much  amused  him- 
self at  Wool wich  that  day.  He  did  and  he  did  not. 
He  could  not  help  being  interested  in  all  he  saw,  and  he 
liked  the  Marshalls  well  enough,  and  in  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances would  have  entered  very  heartily  into  any 
sight-seeing.  But  he  kept  thinking  all  the  time  what 
his  mother  was  doing,  and  wondering  over  the  mysteri- 
ous business  which  was  to  be  explained  to  him  sooner 
or  later,  and  which  he  had  so  magnanimously  promised 
to  wait  for  the  revelation  of,  and  entertain  no  suspicious 
about  in  the  meantime.  The  worst  of  such  magnanim- 
ity is  that  it  is  subject  to  dreadful  failings  of  the  heart 
in  its  time  of  waiting — never  giving  in,  indeed,  but  yet 
feeling  the  pressure  whenever  there  is  a  moment  to 
think.  This  matter  mixed  itself  up  so  with  all  Philip 
saw  that  he  never  in  after  life  saw  a  great  cannon,  or  a 
pyramid  of  balls  (which  is  not,  to  be  sure,  an  every-day 
sight)  without  a  vague  sensation  of  trouble,  as  of  some- 


408  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

thing  lying  behind  which  was  concealed  from  "him,  and 
which  he  would  scarcely  endure  to  have  concealed. 
When  he  left  his  friends  in  the  evening,  however,  it  was 
with  another  engagement  for  to-morrow,  and  several 
to-morrows  after,  and  great  jubilation  on  the  part  of 
both  father  and  son,  as  to  their  good  luck  in  meeting, 
and  having  his  companionship  in  their  pleasures.  And, 
in  fact,  these  pleasures  were  carried  on  for  several  days, 
always  with  the  faint  bitter  in  them  to  Philip,  of  that 
consciousness  that  his  mother  was  pleased  to  be  rid  of 
him,  glad  to  see  his  back  turned,  the  most  novel,  ex- 
traordinary sensation  to  the  boy.  And  it  must  also  be 
confessed  that  he  kept  a  very  keen  eye  on  all  the  pass- 
ing carriages,  always  hoping  to  see  that  one  in  which 
the  witch,  as  he  called  her,  and  the  girl  with  the  keen 
eyes  were — for  he  had  not  picked  up  the  name  of  Lady 
Mariamne,  keen  as  his  young  ears  were,  and  though 
John  had  mentioned  it  in  his  presence,  partly,  perhaps, 
because  it  was  so  very  unlikely  a  name.  As  for  the 
man  with  the  opera-glasses,  he  had  not  seen  his  face  at 
all,  and  therefore  could  not  hope  to  recognise  him. 
And  yet  he  felt  a  little  thrill  run  through  him  when  any 
tall  man  with  grey  hair  passed  in  the  street.  He  al- 
most thought  he  could  have  known  the  tall  slim  figure 
with  a  certain  swaying  movement  in  it,  which  was  not 
like  anybody  else.  I  need  not  say,  however,  that  even 
had  these  indications  been  stronger,  Woolwich  and  the 
Isle  of  Dogs  were  unlikely  places  in  which  to  meet 
Lady  Mariamne,  or  any  gentleman  likely  to  be  in  atten- 
dance on  her.  In  Whitechapel,  indeed,  had  he  but 
known,  he  might  have  met  Miss  Dolly  :  but  then  in 
Whitechapel  there  were  no  sights  which  virtuous  youth 
is  led  to  see.  And  Philip's  man  with  the  opera-glass  was, 
during  these  days,  using  that  aid  to  vision  in  a  very  dif- 
ferent place,  and  had  neither  leisure  nor  inclination  to 
move  vaguely  about  the  world. 

For  three  days  this  went  on  successfully  enough  : 
young  Philip  Compton  and  Ralph  Marshall  saw  enough 
to  last  them  all  the  rest  of  their  lives,  and  there  was  no 
limit  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  good  country  clergyman, 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  409 

who  felt  that  he  never  couM  have  succeeded  so  com- 
pletely in  improving  his  sou's  mind,  instead  of  deliver- 
ing him  over  to  the  frivolous  amusements  of  town,  if  it 
h-id  not  been  for  the  companionship  of  Philip,  who 
made  Ralph  feel  that  it  was  all  right,  and  that  he  was 
not  being  victimised  for  nothing.  But  on  the  fourth 
day  a  hitch  occurred.  .John  Tat  ham  had  been  made 
to  give  all  sorts  of  orders  and  admissions  for  the  party 
to  see  every  nook  and  corner  of  the  Temple,  much  to 
Elinor's  alarm,  who  felt  that  place  was  too  near  to  be 
safe ;  but  she  was  herself  in  circumstances  too  urgent 
to  permit  her  dwelling  upon  it.  She  had  left  the 
house  on  that  particular  morning  long  before  Philip 
was  ready,  and  every  anxiety  was  dulled  in  her  mind 
for  the  moment  by  the  overwhelming  sense  of  the  crisis 
arrived.  She  went  to  his  room  before  he  had  left  it, 
and  gave  him  a  kiss,  and  told  him  that  she  might  be  de- 
tained for  a  long  time  ;  that  she  did  know  exactly  at 
what  hour  she  should  return.  She  was  very  pale,  paler 
than  he  had  ever  seen  her,  and  her  manner  had  a  sup- 
pressed agitation  in  it  which  startled  Philip  ;  but  she 
managed  to  smile  as  she  assured  him  she  was  quite 
well,  and  that  there  was  nothing  troubling  her. 
hing,  nothing  that  has  to  do  with  us — a  little  dis- 
turbed for  a  friend — but  that  will  be  all  over,"  she  said, 
"to-night,  I  hope."  Philip  made  a  leisurely  breakfast 
after  she  was  gone,  and  it  happened  to  him  that  morn- 
ing for  the  first  time  as  he  was  alone  to  make  a  study 
of  the  papers.  And  the  consequence  was  that  he  said 
to  himself  really  those  words  which  his  mother  in 
imagination  had  so  often  heard  him  say,  "  Hallo ! 
Philip  Compton,  my  name  !  I  wonder  if  he  is  any 
relation.  I  wonder  if  we  have  anything  to  do  with 
those  St.  Serf  Comptons."  Then  he  reflected,  but 
vaguely,  that  he  did  not  know  to  what  Comptons  he  be- 
longed, nor  even  what  county  he  came  from,  to  tell  the 
truth.  And  then  it  was  time  to  hurry  over  his  break- 
fast, to  swallow  his  cup  of  tea,  to  snatch  up  his  hat  and 
gloves,  and  to  rush  off  to  meet  his  friends.  But  on 
that  day  Philip  was  unlucky.  When  he  got  to  the 


410  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

place  of  meeting  he  found  nothing  but  a  telegram  from 
Ralph,  announcing  that  his  father  was  so  knocked  up 
with  his  previous  exertions  that  they  were  obliged 
to  take  a  quiet  day.  And  thus  Philip  was  left  in  the 
Temple,  of  all  places  in  the  world,  on  the  day  when  his 
mother  was  to  appear  in  the  law-courts  close  by — on 
the  day  of  all  others  when  if  she  could  have  sent  him 
for  twenty-four  hours  to  the  end  of  the  earth  she 
would  have  done  so — on  the  day  when  so  terrible  was 
the  stress  and  strain  upon  herself  that  for  once  in  the 
world  even  Pippo  had  gone  as  completely  out  of  her 
mind  as  if  he  had  not  been. 

The  boy  looked  about  him  for  awhile,  and  reflected 
what  to  do,  and  then  he  started  out  into  the  Strand, 
conscientiously  waiting  for  the  Marshalls  before  he 
should  visit  the  Temple  and  all  its  historical  ways ;  and 
then  he  was  amused  and  excited  by  seeing  a  barrister 
or  two  in  wig  and  gown  pass  by  ;  and  then  he  thought 
of  the  trial  in  the  newspapers,  in  which  somebody  who, 
like  himself,  was  called  Philip  Compton,  was  involved. 
Philip  was  still  lingering,  wondering  if  he  could  get  into 
the  court,  a  little  shy  of  trying,  but  gradually  growing 
eager,  thinking  at  least  that  he  would  try  and  get  a 
sight  of  the  wonderful  grand  building,  still  so  new, 
when  he  suddenly  saw  Simmons,  his  uncle  John's  clerk, 
passing  through  the  quandrangle  of  the  law-courts. 
Here  was  his  chance.  He  rushed  forward  and  caught 
the  clerk  by  the  arm,  who  was  in  a  great  hurry,  as 
everybody  seemed  to  be.  "  Oh,  Simmons,  can  you  get 
me  into  that  Brown  trial?  "  cried  Philip.  "  Brown  !  " 
Simmons  said.  "Mr.  Tatham  is  not  on  in  that."  "Oh, 
never  mind  about  Mr.  Tatham,"  said  the  boy.  "  Can't 
you  get  me  in  ?  I  have  never  seen  a  trial,  and  I  take 
an  interest  in  that."  "I  advise  yon,"  said  Simmons, 
"  to  wait  for  one  that  your  uncle's  in."  "Can't  you  get 
me  in  ?  "  said  Philip,  impatiently  :  and  this  touched 
the  pride  of  Simmons,  who  had  many  friends,  if  not  in 
high  places,  yet  in  low. 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  411 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

PHILIP  had  never  been  in  a  court  of  law  before.  I 
am  almost  as  ignorant  as  he  was,  yet  I  cannot  imagine 
anything  more  deeply  interesting  than  to  find  one's  self 
suddenly  one  of  a  crowded  assembly  trying  more  or 
less — for  is  not  the  public  but  a  larger  jury,  sometimes 
contradicting  the  verdict  of  the  other,  and  when  it  does 
so  almost  invariably  winning  the  cause  ? — a  fellow- 
creature,  following  out  the  traces  of  his  crime  or  his 
innocence,  looking  on  while  a  human  drama  is  unrolled, 
often  far  more  interesting  than  any  dramatic  represen- 
tation of  life.  He  was  confused  for  the  moment  by  the 
crowd,  by  the  new  and  unusual  spectacle,  by  the  be- 
wilderment of  seeing  for  the  first  time  what  he  had  so 
often  heard  of,  the  judge  on  the  bench,  the  wigged 
barristers  below,  the  one  who  was  speaking,  so  different 
from  any  other  public  speaker  Philip  had  ever  heard, 
addressing  not  the  assembly,  but  the  smaller  circle 
round  him,  interrupted  by  other  voices  :  the  accused 
in  his  place  and  the  witness — standing  there  more  dis- 
tinctly at  the  bar  than  the  culprit  was — bearing  his  tes- 
timony before  earth  and  heaven,  with  the  fate  of  another 
hanging  on  his  words.  The  boy  was  so  full  of  the 
novel  sight — which  yet  he  had  heard  of  so  often  that 
he  could  identify  every  part  of  it,  and  soon  perceived 
the  scope  of  what  was  going  on — that  he  did  not  at 
first  listen,  so  full  was  he  of  the  interest  of  what  he  saw. 
The  imperturbable  judge,  grave,  letting  no  emotion  ap- 
pear on  his  face  ;  the  jury,  just  the  reverse,  showing 
how  this  and  that  piece  of  evidence  affected  them  ;  the 
barristers  who  were  engaged,  so  keenly  alive  to  every- 
thing, starting  up  now  and  then  when  the  witness 
swerved  from  the  subject,  when  the  opposition  pro- 
posed a  leading  question,  or  one  that  was  irrelevant  to 
the  issue  ;  the  others  who  were  not  "in  it,"  as  Simmons 
said,  so  indifferent ;  and  then  the  spectators  who  had 
places  about  or  near  the  central  interest.  Philip  saw, 


412  THE  MARHIAQE  OF  ELINOR. 

with  a  sudden  leap  of  bis  heart,  the  ladies  of  the  theatre 
and  park,  the  witch  and  the  girl  with  the  keen  eyes,  in 
a  conspicuous  place  ;  the  old  lady,  as  he  called  her,  full 
of  movement  and  gesture,  making  signs  to  others  near 
her,  keeping  up  an  interrupted  whispering,  the  girl  at 
her  side  as  impassive  as  the  judge  himself.  And  then 
Pippo's  roving  eye  caught  a  figure  seated  among  the 
barristers  with  an  opera-glass,  which  made  his  heart 
jump  still  more.  Was  that  the  man  ?  He  had,  at  the 
moment  Philip  perceived  him,  his  opera-glass  in  his 
hand  :  a  tall  man  leaning  back  with  a  look  of  interest, 
very  conspicuous  among  the  wigged  heads  about  him, 
with  grey  hair  in  a  mass  on  his  forehead  as  if  it  had 
grown  thin  and  had  been  coaxed  to  cover  some  de- 
nuded place,  and  a  face  which  it  seemed  to  Philip  he 
had  seen  before,  a  face  worn — was  it  with  study,  was  it 
with  trouble?  Pippo  knew  of  no  other  ways  in  which 
the  eyes  could  be  so  hollov;ed  out,  and  the  lines  so 
deeply  drawn.  A  man,  perhaps,  hard  worn  with  life 
and  labor  and  sorrow.  A  strange  sympathy  sprang  up 
in  the  boy's  mind  :  he  was  sure  he  knew  the  face.  It 
was  a  face  full  of  records,  though  young  Philip  could 
not  read  them — the  face,  he  thought,  of  a  man  who 
had  had  much  to  bear.  Was  it  the  same  man  who  had 
fixed  so  strange  a  gaze  upon  himself  at  the  theatre  ? 
And  what  interest  could  this  man  have  in  the  trial  that 
was  going  on  ? 

The  accused  at  the  bar  was  certainly  not  of  a  kind  to 
arouse  the  interest  which  sprang  into  being  at  sight  of 
this  worn  and  noble  hero.  He  had  the  air  of  a  com- 
fortable man  of  business,  a  man  evidently  well  off,  sur- 
prised at  once  and  indignant  to  find  himself  there, 
sometimes  bursting  with  eagerness  to  explain,  some- 
times leaning  back  with  an  air  of  affected  contempt — 
not  a  good  man  in  trouble,  as  Philip  would  have  hked 
to  think  him,  nor  a  criminal  fully  conscious  of  what 
might  be  awaiting  him  ;  but  a  man  of  the  first  respect- 
ability, indignant  and  incredulous  that  anything 
should  be  brought  against  him.  Philip  felt  himself 
able  to  take  no  interest  whatever  in  Mr.  Brown. 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  413 

It  was  not  till  he  had  gone  through  all  these  sur- 
prises and  observations  that  he  began  to  note  what  was 
being  said.  Philip  was  not  learned  in  the  procedure 
of  the  law,  nor  did  he  know  anything  about  the  case  ; 
but  it  became  vaguely  apparent  to  him  after  awhile 
that  the  immediate  question  concerned  the  destruction 
of  the  books  of  a  joint-stock  company,  of  which 
Brown  was  the  manager,  an  important  point  which  the 
prosecution  had  some  difficulty  in  bringing  home  to 
him.  After  it  had  been  proved  that  the  books  had 
been  destroyed,  and  that  so  far  as  was  known  it  was  to 
Brown's  interest  alone  to  destroy  them,  the  evidence 
as  to  what  had  been  seen  on  the  evening  on  which  this 
took  place  suddenly  took  a  new  turn,  and  seemed  to 
introduce  a  new  actor  on  the  scene.  Some  one  had 
been  seen  to  enter  the  office  in  the  twilight  who  could 
not  be  identified  with  Brown  ;  whom,  indeed,  even 
Philip,  with  his  boyish  interest  in  the  novelty  of  the 
proceedings,  vaguely  perceived  to  be  another  man. 
The  action  of  the  piece,  so  to  speak  (for  it  was  like  a 
play  to  Philip),  changed  and  wavered  here — and  he  be- 
gan to  be  sensible  of  the  character  of  the  different 
players  in  it.  The  counsel  for  the  prosecution  was  a 
well-known  and  eminent  barrister,  one  of  the  most 
noted  of  the  time,  a  man  before  whom  witnesses  trem- 
bled, and  even  the  Bench  itself  was  sometimes  known 
to  quail.  That  this  was  the  case  on  the  present  occa- 
sion Philip  vagualy  perceived.  There  were  points  con- 
tinually arising  which  the  opposing  counsel  made  ob- 
jections to,  appealing  to  the  judge  ;  but  it  rarely  failed 
that  the  stronger  side,  which  was  that  of  the  prosecu- 
tion, won  the  day.  The  imperious  accuser,  whose  re- 
sources of  precedent  and  argument  seemed  boundless, 
carried  everything  with  a  high  hand.  The  boy,  of 
course,  was  not  aware  of  the  weakness  of  the  represen- 
tative of  the  majesty  of  the  law,  nor  the  inferiority,  in 
force  and  skill,  of  the  defence  ;  but  he  gradually  came 
to  a  practical  perception  of  how  the  matter  stood. 

Philip  listened  with  growing  interest,  sometimes 
amused,  sometimes  indignant,  as  the  remorseless  pros- 


414  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

ecutor  ploughed  his  way  through  the  witnesses,  whom 
he  bullied  into  admissions  that  they  were  certain  of 
nothing,  and  that  in  the  dusk  of  that  far-off  evening, 
the  man  whom  they  had  sworn  at  the  time  to  be  quite 
unlike  him,  might  in  reality  have  been  Brown.  Philip 
got  greatly  interested  in  this  question.  He  took  up 
the  opposite  side  himself  with  much  heat,  feeling  as 
sure  as  if  he  had  been  there  that  it  was  not  Brown  : 
and  he  was  delighted  in  his  excitement,  when  there 
stood  up  one  man  who  would  not  be  bullied,  a  man 
who  had  the  air  of  a  respectable  clerk  of  the  lower 
class,  and  who  held  his  own.  He  had  been  an  office 
boy,  the  son  apparently  of  the  housekeeper  in  charge 
of  the  premises  referred  to  when  the  incident  occurred, 
and  the  gist  of  his  evidence  was  that  the  prisoner  at 
the  bar — so  awful  a  personage  once  to  the  little  office 
boy,  so  curtly  discussed  now  as  Brown — had  left  the 
office  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  the  6th  of  Sep- 
tember, and  had  not  appeared  again. 

"A  different  gentleman  altogether  came  in  the  even- 
ing, a  much  taller  man,  with  a  large  moustache." 

"  Where  was  it  that  you  saw  this  man  ?  " 

"Slipping  in  at  the  side  door  of  the  office  as  if  he 
didn't  want  to  be  seen." 

"  Was  that  a  door  which  was  generally  open,  or  used 
by  the  public  ?  " 

"  Never,  sir ;  but  none  of  the  doors  were  used  at 
that  time  of  night." 

"And  how,  then,  could  any  one  get  admittance  there  ?  " 

"  Only  those  that  had  private  keys  ;  the  directors 
had  their  private  keys." 

"Then  your  conclusion  was  that  it  was  a  director, 
and  that  he  had  a  right  to  be  there?" 

"  I  knew  it  was  a  director,  sir,  because  I  knew  the 
gentleman,"  the  witness  said. 

"  You  say  it  was  late  in  the  evening  of  the  6th  of 
September.  Was  it  daylight  at  the  time  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  sir  ;  nearly  dark — a  sort  of  a  half  light." 

"  Did  the  person  you  saw  go  in  openly,  or  make  any 
attempt  at  concealment  ?  " 


THB  MARRIAGE  OF  ELIXOR.  415 

"He  had  a  light  coat  on,  like  the  coats  gentlemen 
wear  when  they  go  to  the  theatre,  and  something  muf- 
fled round  his  throat,  and  his  hat  pulled  down  over  his 
face." 

"  Like  a  person  who  wished  to  conceal  himself  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  witness. 

"  And  how,  then,  if  he  was  muffled  about  the  throat, 
and  his  hat  pulled  over  his  face,  in  the  half  light  late  in 
the  evening,  could  you  see  that  he  had  a  large  mous- 
tache?" 

The  witness  stood  and  stai-ed  with  his  mouth  open, 
and  made  no  reply. 

The  counsel,  with  a  louder  voice  and  those  intonations 
of  contemptuous  insinuation  which  are  calculated  to 
make  a  man  feel  that  he  is  convicted  of  the  basest  per- 
jury, and  is  being  held  up  to  the  reprobation  of  the 
world,  repeated  the  question,  "  How  could  you  see  that 
he  had  a  large  moustache  ?  " 

"I  saw  it,"  said  the  witness,  hotly,  "because  I  knew 
the  gentleman." 

"And  how  did  you  know  the  gentleman?  You 
thought  you  recognised  the  gentleman,  and  therefore, 
though  you  could  not  possibly  perceive  it,  you  saw  his 
moustache  ?  I  fear  that  is  not  an  answer  that  will  sat- 
isfy the  jury." 

"  I  suomit,"  said  the  counsel  for  the  defence,  "  that 
it  is  very  evident  what  the  witness  means.  He  recog- 
nised a  man  with  whose  appearance  he  was  perfectly 
familiar."" 

"  I  saw  liim,"  said  the  witness,  "  as  clear  as  I  see  you, 
sir." 

"  What :  in  the  dark,  late  on  a  September  night,  with 
a  coat  collar  up  to  his  ears,  and  a  hat  pulled  down  over 
his  face !  You  see  my  learned  friend  in  broad  daylight, 
and  with  the  full  advantage  of  standing  opposite  to  him 
and  studymg  his  looks  at  your  leisure.  You  might  as 
well  say  because  you  know  the  gentleman  that  you  could 
see  his  haif  was  dark  and  abundant  under  his  wig." 

At  this  «  laugh  ran  through  the  court,  at  which  Philip, 
listening,  was  furiously  indignant,  as  it  interrupted  the 


I  lf>  THE  MMUIIAGK   Of-'   KL1SOR. 

course  of  the  investigation.  It  was  through  the  sound 
of  this  laugh  that  he  heard  the  witness  demand  loudly, 
"How  could  I  be  mistaken,  when  I  saw  Mr.  Compton 
every  day  '? " 

Mr.  Comptou  !  Philip's  heart  began  to  beat  like  the 
hammers  of  a  steam-engine.  Was  this,  then,  the  real 
issue?  And  who  was  Mr.  Compton?  He  could  not 
have  told  how  it  was  that  he  somehow  identified  the 
man  whom  the  witness  had  seen,  or  had  not  seen,  with 
the  man  who  had  the  opera-glass,  and  who  had  fixed  a 
dreadful  blank  stare  upon  the  other  in  the  witness-box 
during  a  great  part  of  this  discussion.  Was  it,  lie  who 
was  on  his  trial,  and  not  Brown?  And  who  was  he  ? 
And  where  was  it  that  Philip  had  known  and  grown 
familiar  with  that  face,  which,  so  far  as  he  could  re- 
member, he  had  never  seen  before,  but  which  belonged 
to  the  man  who  bore  his  own  name  ? 

When  the  counsel  for  the  prosecution  had  turned  the 
unfortunate  witness  outside  in,  and  proved  that  he  knew 
nothing  and  had  seen  nobody  :  and  that,  besides,  he  wav 
a  man  totally  unworthy  of  credit,  who  had  lied  from  hi* 
cradle,  and  whose  own  mother  and  friends  put  no  trust  in 
him,  the  court  adjourned  for  lunch.  But  Philip  forgot, 
that  he  required  any  lunch.  His  mind  was  filled  will;. 
echoes  of  that  name.  He  began  to  feel  a  strange  certain- 
ty that  it  was  the  same  man  who  had  fixed  him  with  the 
same  gaze  in  the  theatre.  Who  was  Mr.  Compton,  and 
what  was  lie  ?  The  question  took  the  boy's  breath  away, 

He  sat  through  the  interval,  finding  a  place  where  he 
could  see  better,  through  the  kind  offices  of  the  usher 
to  whom  Simmons  had  commended  him,  and  waiting 
with  impatience  till  the  trial  should  be  resumed.  No- 
body remarked  the  boy  among  the  crowd  of  the  ordi- 
nary public,  many  of  whom  remained,  as  he  did,  to  see 
it  out.  Philip  cared  nothing  about  Brown  :  all  that  he 
wanted  to  know  was  about  this  namesake  of  his — thi* 
Compton,  this  other  man,  who  was  not  Brown.  If  \* 
was  the  man  with  the  opera-glass,  he  was  not  so  much 
excited  as  his  young  namesake,  for  he  went  to  luncheon 
with  the  rest ;  while  the  boy  remained  counting  th« 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR,  417 

minutes,  eager  to  begin  the  story,  the  drama,  again. 
The  impression  left,  however,  on  Philip's  impartial  mind 
was  that  the  last  witness,  though  driven  and  badgered 
out  of  what  wits  lie  had  by  the  examination,  had  really 
seen  a  man  whom  he  perfectly  knew,  his  recognition  of 
whom  was  not  really  affected  either  by  the  twilight  or 
the  disguise. 

The  thrill  of  interest  which  he  felt  running  through 
all  his  veins  as  the  court  filled  again  was  like,  but 
stronger  than,  the  interest  with  which  he  had  ever  seen 
the  curtain  rise  in  the  theatre.  His  heart  beat :  he  felt 
as  if  in  some  sort  it  was  his  own  fate  that  was  going  to 
be  decided  :  all  his  prepossessions  were  in  favour  of  that 
other  accused,  yet  not  openly  accused,  person  who  was 
not  Brown  ;  and  yet  he  felt  almost  as  sure  as  if  he  had 
been  there  that  the  office  boy  of  twenty  years  ago  had 
seen  that  man  stealing  in  at  the  side  door. 

Young  Philip  did  not  catch  the  name  of  the  next  wit- 
ness who  was  called  ;  such  a  thing  will  happen  some- 
times even  with  the  quickest  ear  at  a  moment  when 
every  whisper  is  important.  If  he  had  heard  he  would 
probably  have  thought  that  he  was  deceived  by  his  ex- 
citement, impossible  as  it  was  that  such  a  name  should 
have  anything  to  do  with  this  or  any  other  trial.  The 
shock  therefore  was  unbroken  when,  watching  with  all 
the  absorbed  interest  of  a  spectator  at  the  most  exciting 
play,  the  boy  saw  a  lady  come  slowly  forward  into  the 
witness-box.  Philip  had  the  same  strange  sense  of  know- 
ing who  it  was  that  lie  had  felt  the  previous  witness  to 
have  in  respect  to  the  man  whom  he  could  not  see,  but 
yet  had  infallibly  recognised  :  but  he  said  to  himself,  No  ! 
it  was  not  possible  !  No  !  it  was  not  possible  !  She 
came  forward  slowly,  put  up  the  veil  that  had  covered 
her  face,  and  gi-asped  the  bar  before  her  to  support  her- 
self ;  and  then  the  boy  sprang  to  his  feet,  in  the  terrible 
shock  which  electrified  him  from  head  to  feet !  His 
movements,  and  the  stifled  cry  he  uttered,  made  a  little 
commotion  in  the  crowd,  and  called  forth  the  cry  of 
"Silence  in  the  court."  His  neighbours  around. him 
hustled  him  back  into  his  place,  where  he  sank  down 

27 


418  THE  MAR1UAGE   OF   K1JNOR. 

incapable  indeed  of  movement,  knowing  that  he  could 
not  go  and  pluck  her  from  that  place — could  not  rush 
to  her  side,  could  do  nothing  but  sit  there  and  gasp  and 
gaze  at  his  mother.  His  mother,  in  such  a  place  !  in 
such  a  case  !  with  which — surely,  surely — she  could  have 
nothing  to  do.  Elinor  Compton,  at  the  time  referred 
to  Elinor  Dennistouu,  of  Windyhill,  in  Surrey — there 
was  no  doubt  about  the  name  now.  And  Philip  had 
time  enough  to  identify  everything,  name  and  person, 
for  there  rose  a  vague  surging  of  contention  about  the 
first  questions  put  to  her,  which  were  not  evidence,  ac- 
cording to  the  counsel  on  the  other  side,  which  he  felt 
with  fury  was  done  on  purpose  to  prolong  the  agony. 
During  this  time  she  stood  immovable,  holding  on  by 
the  rail  before  her,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  it,  perfectly  pale, 
like  marble,  and  as  still.  Among  all  the  moving,  rus- 
tling, palpitating-  crowd,  and  the  sharp  volleys  of  the 
lawyers'  voices,  and  even  the  contradictory  opinions 
elicited  from  the  harassed  judge  himself — to  look  at 
that  figure  standing  there,  which  scarcely  seemed  to 
breathe,  had  the  most  extraordinary  effect.  For  a  time 
Philip  was  like  her,  scarcely  breathing,  holding  on  in  an 
unconscious  sympathy  to  the  back  Of  the  seat  before 
him,  his  eyes  wide  open,  fixed  upon  her.  But  as  his 
nerves  began  to  accustom  themselves  to  that  extraor- 
dinary, inconceivable  sight,  the  other  particulars  of  the 
scene  came  out  of  the  mist,  and  grew  apparent  to  him 
in  a  lurid  light  that  did  not  seem  the  light  of  day.  He 
saw  the  eager  looks  at  her  of  the  ladies  in  the  privileged 
places,  the  whispers  that  were  exchanged  among  them. 
He  saw  underneath  the  witness-box,  almost  within  reach 
of  her,  John  Tatham,  with  an  anxious  look  on  his  face. 
And  then  he  saw,  what  was  the  most  extraordinary  of 
all,  the  man — who  had  been  the  centre  of  his  interest 
till  now — the  man  whose  name  was  Philip  Compton, 
like  his  own  ;  he  who  fixed  the  last  witness  with  the 
stare  of  his  opera-glass,  who  had  kept  it  in  perpetual 
use.  He  had  put  it  down  now  on  the  table  before  him, 
his  arms  were  folded  on  his  breast,  and  his  head  bent. 
Philip  thought  he  detected  now  and  then  a  furtive  look 


THK  llAHIirAVE   OF  ELiyoil. 

under  his  brows  ;it  tlie  motionless  witness 
through  the  storm  of  words  the  moment  when  her  turn 
would  come  ;  but  though  he  had  leant  forward  all  the 
tiuio,  following  every  point  of  the  proceedings  with  in- 
terest, he  now  drew  back,  effaced  himself,  retired  as  it 
were  from  the  scene.  What  was  there  between  these 
two  ?  Was  there  any  link  between  them  ?  What  was 
the  drama  about  to  be  played  out  before  Pippo's  in- 
nocent and  ignorant  eyes?  At  last  the  storm  and 
wrangling  seeaied  to  come  to  an  end,  and  there  came 
out  low  but  clear  the  sound  of  her  voice.  It  seemed 
only  now,  when  he  heard  his  mother  speak,  that  he  was 
certified  that  so  inconceivable  a  thing  as  that  she  should 
be  here  was  a  matter  of  fact :  his  mother  here  !  Philip 
fixed  his  whole  being  upon  her — eyes,  thoughts,  ab- 
sorbed attention,  he  scarcely  seemed  to  breathe  except 
through  her.  Could  she  see  him,  he  wondered,  through 
all  that  crowd '?  But  then  he  perceived  that  she  saw 
nothing  with  those  eyes  that  looked  steadily  in  front  of 
her,  not  turning  a  glance  either  to  the  right  or  left. 

For  some  time  Philip  was  baffled  completely  by  the 
questions  put,  which  were  those  to  which  the  counsel 
on  the  other  side  objected  as  not  evidence,  and  which 
seemed,  even  to  the  boy's  inexperienced  mind,  to  be 
mere  play  upon  the  subject,  attempts  to  connect  her  in 
some  way  with  the  question  as  to  Brown's  guilt  or  inno- 
cence. Spmethiug  in  the  appearance,  at  this  stage,  of 
a  lady  so  unlike  the  other  witnesses,  seemed  to  exercise 
a  certain  strange  effect,  however,  quickening  everybody's 
interest,  and  when  the  examining  counsel  approached 
the  question  of  the  date  which  had  already  been  shown 
to  be  so  momentous,  all  interruptions  were  silenced,  and 
the  court  in  general,  like  Philip,  held  its  breath.  There 
were  many  there  expecting  what  are  called  in  the  news- 
papers "  revelations  :  "  the  defence  was  taken  by  sur- 
prise, and  did  not  know  what  new  piece  of  evidence 
was  about  to  be  produced  :  and  even  the  examining 
counsel  was,  for  such  a  man,  subdued  a  little  by  the 
other  complicating  threads  of  the  web  among  which  he 
had  to  pick  his  way. 


•120  TILE  A1AWUAUE   OF  ELINOti. 

"  You  recollect,"  be  said  in  his  most  soothing 
"  the  evening  of  the  6th  September,  1863  ?  " 

She  bowed  her  head  in  reply.  And  then  as  if  that 
was  sparing  herself  too  much,  added  a  low  "Yes." 

"  As  I  am  instructed,  you  were  not  then  married,  but 
engaged  to  Mr.  Philip  Compton.  Is  that  so  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  One  of  the  directors  of  the  company  of  which  the 
defendant  was  manager  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so." 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  to  enter  upon  matters  so  pri- 
vate :  but  there  was  some  question,  I  believe,  about  an 
investment  to  be  made  of  a  portion  of  your  fortune  in 
the  hands  of  this  company?" 

"Yes." 

"  You  received  a  visit  from  Mr.  Compton  on  the  sub- 
ject on  the  day  I  have  mentioned." 

The  witness  made  a  slight  movement  and  pause  : 
then  answered  as  before,  but  more  firmly,  "Yes:"  she 
added,  "  not  on  this  subject,"  in  a  lower  tone. 

"  You  can  recollect,  more  or  less  exactly,  the  time  of 
his  arrival  ?  " 

"  Yes.  It  was  in  the  evening,  after  dinner  ;  in  the 
darkening  before  the  lamps  were  lit." 

"  Were  you  looking  for  him  on  that  night  ?  " 

"  No, ;  it  was  an  unexpected  visit.  He  was  going  to 
Ireland,  and  paused  on  his  way  through  town  to  come 
down  to  Windy  hill." 

"  You  have  particular  reasons  for  remembering  the 
date,  which  make  it  impossible  that  there  could  be  any 
mistake  ?  " 

"  No  ;  there  could  be  no  mistake." 

"  You  will  perhaps  inform  the  court,  Mrs.  Compton, 
why  your  memory  is  so  exact  on  this  point." 

Once  more  she  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  re- 
plied— 

"It  was  exactly  ten  days  before  my  marriage." 

"  I  think  that  will  do,  Mrs.  Compton.  I  will  trouble 
you  no  further,"  the  counsel  said. 

The  hubbub  which  sprang  up  upon  this  seemed  to 


THE  'MARRIAGE   Of  F.LIN  OR.  4'21 

Philip  for  fhc  moment  as  if  it  were  directed  against  bis 
mother,  which,  of  course,  was  not  the  case,  but,  intended 
to  express  the  indignant  surprise  of  the  defence  at  the 
elaborate  examination  of  a  witness  who  had  nothing  to 
say  on  the  main  subject. 

The  leader  on  the  other  side,  however,  though  taken 
by  surprise,  and  denouncing  the  trick  which  his  learned 
brother  had  played  upon  the  court  by  producing  evi- 
dence which  had  really  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter, 
announced  his  intention  to  put  a  further  question  or 
two  to  Mrs.  Compton.  Young  Philip  in  the  crowd 
started  again  from  his  seat  with  the  feeling  that  he 
would  like  to  fly  at  that  man's  throat. 

"  Twenty  years  is  a  long  time,"  he  said,  "  and  it  is 
difficult  to  be  sure  of  any  circumstance  at  such  a  dis- 
tance. Perhaps  the  witness  will  kindly  inform  us  what 
were  the  circumstances  which  fixed  this,  no  doubt  one 
of  many  visits,  on  her  mind  ?  " 

Elinor  turned  for  the  first  time  to  the  side  from 
which  the  question  came  with  a  little  movement  of  that 
impatience  which  was  habitual  to  her,  which  three  per- 
sons in  that  crowd  recognised  in  a  moment  as  charac- 
teristic. One  of  these  was  John  Tatham,  who  had 
brought  her  to  the  court,  and  kept  near  that  she  might 
feel  that  she  was  not  alone  ;  the  other  was  her  son,  of 
whose  presence  there  nobody  knew  ;  the  third,  sat  with 
his  eyes  cast  down,  and  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast, 
not  looking  at  her,  yet  seeing  every  movement  she  made. 

"  It  was  a  very  simple  circumstance,"  she  said  with 
the  added  spirit  of  that  impetuous  impulse  :  but  then 
the  hasty  movement  failed  her,  and  she  came  back  to 
herself  and  to  a  consciousness  of  the  scene  in  which  she 
stood.  A  sort  of  tremulous  shiver  came  into  her  voice. 
She  paused  and  then  resumed,  "There  was  a  calendar 
hinging  in  the  hall ;  it  caught  Mr.  Compton's  eye,  and 
he  pointed  it  out  to  me.  It  marked  the  6th.  He  said, 
'  Just  ten  days ' ' 

Here  her  voice  stopped  altogether.  She  could  say  no 
more.  And  there  was  an  answering  pause  throughout  the 
whole  crowded  court,  a  holding  of  the  general  breath, 


422  THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR. 

the  response  to  a  note  of  passion  seldom  struck  in  such  a 
place.  Even  in  the  cross-examination  there  was  a  pause. 

"  Till  when  ?    What  was  the  other  date  referred  to  ?  " 

"  The  sixteenth  of  September,"  she  said  in  a  voice 
that  was  scarcely  audible  to  the  crowd.  She  added 
still  more  low  so  that  the  judge  curved  his  hand  over 
his  ear  to  hear  her,  "  Our  wedding  day." 

"I  regret  to  enter  into  private  matters,  Mrs.  Cornp- 
ton,  but  I  believe  it  is  not  a  secret  that  your  married 
life  came  to  a — more  rapid  conclusion  than  could  have 
been  augured  from  such  a  beginning.  May  I  ask  what 
your  reasons  were  for " 

But  here  the  other  counsel  sprung  to  his  feet,  and  the 
contention  arose  again.  Such  a  question  was  not  clearly 
permissible.  And  the  prosecution  was  perfectly  satis- 
fied with  the  evidence.  It  narrowed  the  question  by 
the  production  of  this  clear  and  unquestionable  testi- 
mony— the  gentleman  whom  it  had  been  attempted  to 
involve  being  thus  placed  out  of  the  question,  and  all 
the  statements  of  the  previous  witness  about  the  mous- 
tache which  he  could  not  see,  etc.,  set  aside. 

Philip,  it  may  be  supposed,  paid  little  attention  to 
this  further  discussion.  His  eyes  and  thoughts  were 
fixed  upon  his  mother,  who  for  a  minute  or  two  stood 
motionless  through  it,  as  pale  as  ever,  but  with  her 
head  a  little  thrown  back,  facing,  though  not  looking 
at,  the  circling  lines  of  faces.  Had  she  seen  anything 
she  must  have  seen  the  tall  boy  standing  up  as  pale  as 
she,  following  her  movements  with  an  unconscious  repe- 
tition which  was  more  than  sympathy,  never  taking  his 
gaze  from  her  face. 

And  then  presently  her  place  was  empty,  and  she 
was  gone. 

Philip  was  not  aware  how  the  discussion  of  the  law- 
yers ended,  but  only  that  in  a  moment  there  was 
vacancy  where  his  mother  had  been  standing,  and  his 
gaze  seemed  thrown  back  to  him  by  the  blank  where 
she  had  been.  He  was  left  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd, 
which,  after  that  one  keen  sensation,  fell  back  upon  the 
real  trial  with  interest  much  less  keen. 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  4-'3 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

PHILIP  did  not  know  how  long  he  remained,  almost 
paralysed,  in  the  court,  dazed  in  his  mind,  incapable  of 
movement.  He  was  in  the  centre  of  a  long  row  of 
people,  and  to  make  his  way  out  was  difficult.  He  felt 
that  the  noise  would  cah1  attention  to  him,  and  that  he 
might  be  somehow  identified — identified,  as  what? 
He  did  not  know — his  head  was  not  clear  enough  to 
give  any  reason.  When  he  came  more  to  himself,  and 
his  eyes  regained  a  little  their  power  of  vision,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  everybody  had  stolen  away.  There  was  the 
judge,  indeed,  still  sitting  imperturbable,  the  jury  rest- 
less in  their  box,  the  lawyers  going  on  with  their  eternal 
quarrel  over  a  bewildered  witness,  all  puppets  carrying 
on  some  unintelligible,  wearisome,  automaton  process, 
contending,  contending  for  ever  about  nothing.  But  all 
that  had  secured  Philip's  attention  was  gone.  John 
Tatham's  head  was  no  longer  visible  under  the  witness- 
box  ;  the  ladies  had  disappeared  from  their  elevated 
seats  ;  the  man  with  the  opera-glass  was  gone.  They 
were  all  gone,  and  the  empty  husks  of  a  question  which 
only  concerned  the  comfort  and  life  of  the  commonplace 
culprit  in  the  dock  were  being  turned  over  and  over 
like  chaff  by  the  wind.  And  yet  it  was  some  time  be- 
fore poor  young  Pippo,  shy  of  attracting  attention,  feel- 
ing some  subtle  change  even  in  himself  which  he  did 
not  understand,  afraid  to  have  people  look  at  him  and 
divine  him,  knowing  more  of  him  perhaps  than  he  him- 
self knew,  could  make  up  his  mind  to  move.  He  might 
have  remained  there  till  the  court  broke  up  but  for  the 
movement  of  some  one  beside  him,  who  gathered  up  his 
hat  and  umbrella,  and  with  some  commotion  pushed  his 
way  between  the  rows  of  seats.  Philip  followed,  thank- 
ful of  the  opportunity,  and,  as  it  happened,  the  sensa- 
tion of  the  day  being  over,  many  others  followed  too, 
and  thus  he  got  out  into  the  curious,  wondering  day- 


4 24:  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

light,  which  seemed  to  look  him  in  the  face,  as  if  this 
Philip  had  never  been  seen  by  it  before.  That  was  the 
impression  given  him — that  when  he  first  came  out  the 
atmosphere  quivered  round  him  with  a  strange  novelty, 
as  if  he  were  some  other  being,  some  one  without  a 
name,  new  to  the  world,  new  to  himself.  He  did  not 
seem  sure  that  he  would  know  his  way  home,  and  yet 
he  did  not  call  a  passing  hansom,  as  he  would  have 
done  yesterday,  with  a  schoolboy's  pleasure  in  assuming 
a  man's  careless,  easy  ways.  It  is  a  long  way  from  the 
Law  Courts  to  Ebury  Street,  but  it  seemed  a  kind  of 
satisfaction  to  be  in  motion,  to  walk  on  along  the 
crowded  streets.  And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Philip  did 
lose  his  way,  and  got  himself  entangled  in  a  web  of 
narrow  streets  and  monotonous  little  openings,  all  so 
like  each  other  that  it  took  him  a  long  time  to  extricate 
himself  and  find  again  the  thread  of  a  locality  known  to 
him.  He  did  not  know  what  he  was  to  do  when  he  got 
in.  Should  he  find  her  there,  in  the  little  dingy  drawing- 
room  as  usual, with  the  tea  on  the  table?  Would  she  re- 
ceive him  with  her  usual  smile,  and  ask  where  he  had 
been  and  what  he  had  seen,  and  if  the  Musgraves  had 
enjoyed  it,  exactly  as  if  nothing  had  happened  ?  Even 
this  wonder  was  faint  in  Philip's  mind,  for  the  chief 
wonder  to  him  was  himself,  and  to  find  out  how  he  had 
changed  since  the  morning — what  he  was  now,  who  he 
was  ?  what  were  the  relations  to  him  of  other  people,  of 
that  other  Philip  Compton  who  had  been  seated  in  the 
court  with  the  opera-glass,  who  had  arrived  at  Windy- 
hill  to  visit  Elinor  Dennistoun  on  the  6th  of  September, 
1863,  twenty  years  ago?  Who  was  that  man?  and 
what  was  he,  himself  Philip  Compton,  of  Lakeside, 
named  Pippo,  whom  his  mother  had  never  once  in  all 
his  life  called  by  his  real  name  ? 

To  his  great  wonder,  and  yet  almost  relief,  Philip 
found  thai  his  mother  had  not  yet  returned  when  he 
got  to  Ebury  Street.  "  Mrs.  Compton  said  as  she  would 
very  likely  be  late.  Can  I  get  you  some  tea.  sir  ?  or, 
perhaps  you  haven't  had  your  lunch  ?  you're  looking 
tired  and  worrited,"  said  the  landlady,  who  had  known 


THE  MARRIAGE   (<F  ELINOR.  425 

Pippo  all  his  life.  He  consented  to  Lave  tea,  partly  io 
till  up  the  time,  aud  went  up  languidly  to  the  deserted 
room,  which  looked  so  miserable  and  desert  a  place 
without  her  who  put  a  soul  into  it  and  made  it  home. 
He  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  himself,  poor  boy, 
but  sat  down  vacantly,  and  stared  into  empty  space, 
seeing,  wherever  he  turned,  the  rows  of  faces,  the  ladies 
making  signs  to  each  other,  the  red  robes  of  the  judge, 
the  lawyers  contending,  and  that  motionless  pale  figure 
in  the  witness-box.  He  shut  hisheyes  and  saw  the  whole 
scene,  then  opened  them  again,  and  still  saw  it — the 
dingy  walls  disappearing,  the  greyness  of  the  afternoon 
giving  a  depth  and  distance  to  the  limited  space.  Should 
he  always  carry  it  about  with  him  wherever  he  went, 
the  vision  of  that  court,  the  shock  of  that  revelation  ? 
And  yet  he  did  not  yet  know  what  the  revelation  was  ; 
the  confusion  in  his  mind  was  too  great,  and  the  dust 
and  mist  that  rose  up  about  him  as  all  the  old  building 
of  his  life  crumbled  and  fell  away. 

"  I'm  sure  as  it's  that  nasty  trial,  sir,  as  has  been  turn- 
ing your  mamma  all  out  of  her  usual  ways,"  said  the 
landlady,  appearing  with  her  tray. 

"  Oh,  the  trial !  Did  you  know  about  the  trial  ?  " 
said  Philip. 

';  Xot,  Mr.  Pippo,  as  ever  she  mentioned  it  to  me. 
Mrs.  Conipton  is  a  lady  as  isn't  that  confidential,  though 
always  an  affable  lady,  and  not  a  bit  proud  ;  but  when 
you've  known  folks  for  years  and  years,  and  take  an  in- 
terest, aud  put  this  and  that  together —  Dear,  clear, 
I  hope  as  you  don't  think  it's  taking  a  liberty.  It's 
more  kindness  nor  curiosity,  and  I  hope  as  you  won't 
mention  it  to  your  mamma." 

Pippo  shook  his  head  and  waved  his  hand,  at  once  to 
satisfy  the  woman  and  dismiss  her  if  possible  ;  but  this 
was  not  so  easy  to  do. 

"And  Lord  St  Serf  so  bad,  sir,"  she  said.     "Lord, 

to  think  that  before  we  know  where  we  are  there  may 

be  such  changes,  and  new  names,  and  no  knowing  what 

to  say  !     But  it's  best  not  to  talk  of  it  till  it  comes  to 

for  there's  many  a  slip  between  the  cup  and  the 


420  THE  MARRIAGE  OP  ELINOR 

lip,  and  there's  no  saying  what  will  happen  with  a  man 
that's  been  adying  for  years  and  years." 

What  did  the  woman  mean  ?  He  got  rid  of  her  at 
length,  chiefly  by  dint  of  making  no  reply  :  and  then, 
to  tell  the  truth,  Pippo's  eye  had  been  caught  by  the 
pile  of  sandwiches  which  the  kind  woman,  pitying  his 
tired  looks,  had  brought  up  with  the  tea.  He  was 
ashamed  of  himself  for  being  hungry  in  such  a  dreadful 
emergency  as  this,  but  he  was  so,  and  could  not  help 
it,  though  nothing  would  have  made  him  confess  so 
much,  or  even  touch  the  sandwiches  till  she  had  gone 
away.  He  pretended  to  ignore  them  till  the  door  was 
shut  after  her,  but  could  not  help  vividly  remember- 
ing that  he  had  eaten  nothing  since  the  morning.  The 
sandwiches  did  him  a  little  good  in  his  mind  as  well  as 
in  his  body.  He  got  rid  of  the  vision  of  the  faces  and 
of  the  red  figure  on  the  bench.  He  began  to  believe 
that  when  he  saw  her  she  would  tell  him.  Had  she 
not  said  so  ?  That  after  awhile  he  should  hear  every- 
thing, and  that  all  should  be  as  it  was  before  ?  All  as 
it  was  before — in  the  time  when  she  told  him  every- 
thing, even  things  that  Granny  did  not  know.  But  she 
had  never  told  him  this,  and  the  other  day  she  had  told 
him  that  it  was  other  people's  secret's,  not  her  own,  that 
she  was  keeping  from  him.  "  Other  people's  secrets  " 
— the  secrets  of  the  man  who  was  Philip  Compton,  who 
went  to  Windyhill  on  the  6th  of  September,  ten  days 
before  Elinor  Dennistoun's  marriage  day.  "  "What 
Philip  Compton  ?  Who  was  he  ?  What  had  he  to  do 
with  her  ?  What,  oh,  what,"  Pippo  said  to  himself,  "  has 
he  to  do  with  me  ?  "  After  all,  that  was  the  most  tre- 
mendous question.  The  others,  or  anything  that  had 
happened  twenty  years  ago,  were  nothing  to  that. 

Meanwhile  Elinor,  of  all  places  in  the  world,  .was  in 
John  Tatham's  chambers,  to  which  he  had  taken  her  to 
rest.  I  cannot  tell  how  Mr.  Tatham,  a  man  so  much 
occupied,  managed  to  subtract  from  all  he  had  to  do 
almost  a  whole  day  to  see  his  cousin  through  the  trial, 
and  stand  by  her,  sparing  her  all  the  lesser  annoyances 
which  surround  and  exaggerate  such  a  great  fact.  He 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  427 

had  brought  her  out  into  the  fresh  air,  feeling  that 
movement  was  the  best  thing  for  her,  and  instead  of 
taking  her  home  in  the  carriage  which  was  waiting,  had 
made  her  walk  with  him,  supported  on  his  arm,  oil 
which  she  hung  in  a  sort  of  suspended  life,  across  the 
street  to  the  Temple,  hoping  thus  to  bring  her  back,  by 
the  necessity  of  exertion,  to  herself.  And  indeed  she 
was  almost  more  restored  to  herself  by  this  remedy  than 
John  Tatham  had  expected  or  hoped.  For  though  he 
placed  her  in  the  great  easy-chair,  in  which  her  slender 
person  was  engulfed  and  supported,  expecting  her  to 
rest  there  and  lie  motionless,  perhaps  even  to  faint,  as 
women  are  supposed  to  do  when  it.  is  particularly  in- 
convenient and  uncomfortable,  Elinor  had  not  been 
there  two  minutes  before  she  rose  up  again  and  began 
to  walk  about  the  room,  with  an  aspect  so  unlike  that 
of  an  exhausted  and  perhaps  fainting  woman,  that  even 
John,  used  as  he  was  to  her  capricious  ways,  was  con- 
founded. Instead  of  being  subdued  and  thankful  that 
it  was  over,  and  this  dreadful  crisis  in  her  life  accom- 
plished, Elinor  walked  up  and  down,  wringing  her 
hands,  moaning  and  murmuring  to  herself  ;  what  was  it 
she  was  saying  ?  "  God  forgive  me  !  God  forgive  me  !  " 
over  and  over  and  over,  unconscious  apparently  that  she 
was  not  alone,  that  any  one  heard  or  observed  her.  X o 
doubt  there  is  in  all  our  actions,  the  very  best,  much 
for  God  to  forgive  ;  mingled  motives,  imperfect  deeds, 
thoughts  full  of  alloy  and  selfishness  ;  but  in  what  her 
conscience  could  accuse  her  now  he  could  not  under- 
stand. She  might  be  to  blame  in  respect  to  her  hus- 
band, though  he  was  very  loth  to  allow  the  possibility  ; 
but  in  this  act  of  her  life,  which  had  been  so  great  a 
strain  upon  her,  it  was  surely  without  any  selfishness, 
for  his  interest  only,  not  for  her  own.  And  yet  John 
had  never  seen  such  a  fervour  of  penitence,  so  strong  a 
consciousness  of  evil  done.  He  went  up  to  her  and  laid 
his  hand  upon  her  arm. 

"  Elinor,  you  are  worn  out.  You  have  done  too 
much.  Will  you  try  and  rest  a  little  here,  or  shall  I 
take  you  home  ?  " 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR. 

She  started  violently  when  he  touched  her.  "  What 
was  I  saying  ?  "  she  said. 

"It  does  not  matter  what  you  were  saying.  Sit 
down  and  rest.  You  will  wear  yourself  out.  Don't 
think  any  more.  Take  this  and  rest  a  little,  and  then 
I  will  take  you  home." 

"  It  is  easy  to  say  so,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  smile. 
"  Don't  think  !  Is  it  possible  to  stop  thinking  at  one's 
pleasure  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  John,  "quite  possible  ;  we  must  all  do 
it  or  we  should  die.  And  now  your  trial's  over,  Nelly, 
for  goodness'  sake  exert  yourself  and  throw  it  off.  You 
have  done  your  duty." 

"  My  duty  !  do  you  think  that  was  my  duty  ?  Oh, 
John,  there  are  so  many  ways  to  look  at  it." 

"  Only  one  way,  when  you  have  a  man's  safety  in 
vour  hands." 

•V 

"  Only  one  way — when  one  has  a  man's  safety — his 
honour,  honour  !  Do  you  think  a  woman  is  justified  in 
whatever  she  does,  to  save  that?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Elinor  ;  in  anything  you 
have  done,  or  could  do,  certainly  you  are  justified. 
My  dear  Nelly,  sit  down  and  take  this.  And  then  I 
will  take  you  home." 

She  took  the  wine  from  his  hand  and  swallowed  a 
little  of  it  ;  and  then  looking  up  into  his  face  with  the 
faint  smile  which  she  put  on  when  she  expected  to  be 
blamed,  and  intended  to  deprecate  and  disarm  him,  as 
she  had  done  so  often  :  "I  don't  know,"  she  said, 
"  that  I  am  so  anxious  to  get  home,  John.  You  were 
to  take  Pippo  to  dine  with  you,  and  to  the  House  to- 
night." 

"  So  I  was,"  ho  said.  "We  did  not  know  what  day 
you  would  be  called.  It  is  a  great  nuisance,  but  if  you 
think  the  boy  would  be  disappointed  not  to  go — 

"He  would  be  much,  much  disappointed.  The  first 
chance  he  has  had  of  hearing  a  debate." 

"  He  would  be  much  better  at  home,  taking  care  of 
you." 

"As  if  I  wanted  taking  care  of  !  or  as  if  the  boy, 


TILL  MARh 

who  has  always  been  the  object  of  everybody's  care 
himself,  would  be  the  proper  person  to  do  it !  If  he 
had  been  a  girl,  perhaps — but  it  is  a  little  late  at  this 
time  of  day  to  wish  for  that  now." 

"  You  were  to  tell  him  everything  to-night,  Elinor." 

"  Oh,  I  was  to  tell  him  !  Do  you  thiuk  I  have  not 
had  enough  for  one  day  ?  enough  to  wear  me  out  body 
and  soul?  You  have  just  been  telling  me  so,  John." 

He  shook  his  head.  "You  know,"  he  said,  "and  I 
know,  that  in  any  case  you  will  have  it  your  own  way, 
Elinor  ;  but  you  have  promised  to  tell  him." 

"  John,  you  are  unkind.  You  take  advantage  of  me 
being  here,  and  so  broken  down,  to  say  that  I  will  have 
my  own  way.  Has  this  been  my  own  way  at  all  ?  I 
would  have  fled  if  I  could,  and  taken  the  boy  far,  far 
away  from  it  all ;  but  you  would  not  let  me.  Yes,  yes, 
I  have  promised.  But  I  am  tired  to  death.  How 

could  I  look  him  in  the  face  and  tell  him "  She 

hid  her  face  suddenly  in  her  hands  with  a  moan. 

"  It  will  be  in  the  papers  to-morrow  morning,  Eli- 
nor." 

"Well!  I  will  tell  him  to-morrow  morning,"  she 
said. 

John  shook  his  head  again  ;  but  it  was  done  behind 
her,  where  she  could  not  see  the  movement.  He  had 
more  pity  of  her  than  words  could  say.  "When  she 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands  in  that  most  pathetic 
of  attitudes,  there  was  nothing  that  he  would  not  have 
forgiven  her.  What  was  to  become  of  her  now  ?  Her 
position  through  all  these  years  had  never  been  so 
dangerous,  in  John's  opinion,  never  so  sad,  as  now. 
Philip  Compton  had  been  there  looking  on  while  she 
put  his  accusers  to  silence,  at  what  cost  to  herself  John 
only  began  dimly  to  guess— to  divine,  to  forbid  himself 
to  inquire.  The  fellow  had  been  there  all  the  time. 
Ho  had  the  grace  not  to  look  at  her,  not  to  distract  her 
with  the  sight  of  him— probably  for  his  own  sake, 
John  thought  bitterly,  that  she  might  not  risk  break- 
ing down.  But  he  was  there,  and  knew  where  she  was 
to  be  found.  And  he  had  seen  the  boy,  and  had  cared 


430  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.      . 

enough  to  fix  his  gaze  upon  him,  that  gaze  which  John 
had  found  intolerable  at  the  theatre.  And  lie  was  on 
the  eve  of  becoming  Lord  St.  Serf,  and  Pippo  his  heir. 
What  was  to  be  the  issue  of  these  complications? 
What  was  to  happen  to  her  who  had  hid  the  boy  so 
long,  who  certainly  could  hide  him  no  more? 

He  took  her  home  to  Ebury  Street  shortly  after, 
where  Philip,  weary  of  waiting,  and  having  made  a  meal 
he  much  wanted  off  the  sandwiches,  had  gone  out  again 
in  his  restlessness  and  unhappiness.  Elinor,  who  had 
become  paler  and  paler  as  the  carriage  approached 
Ebury  Street,  and  who  by  the  time  she  reached  the 
house  looked  really  as  if  at  last  she  must  swoon,  her 
heart  choking  her,  her  breathing  quick  and  feverish,  had 
taken  hold  of  John  to  support  herself,  clutching  at  his  arm, 
when  she  was  told  that  Philip  was  out.  She  came  to 
herself  instantly  on  the  strength  of  that  news.  "  Tell 
him  when  he  comes  in  to  make  haste,"  she  said,  "  for 
Mr.  Tatham  is  waiting  for  him.  As  for  me  I  am  fit  for 
nothing  but  bed.  I  have  had  a  very  tiring  day." 

"  You  do  look  tired,  ma'am,"  said  the  sympathetic 
landlady.  "I'll  run  up  and  put  your  room  ready,  and 
then  I'll  make  you  a  nice  cup  of  tea." 

John  Tatham  thought  that,  notwithstanding  her  ex- 
haustion, her  anxiety,  all  the  realities  of  troubles  present 
and  to  come  that  were  in  her  mind  and  in  her  way,  there 
was  a  flash  something  like  triumph  in  Elinor's  eyes. 
"  Tell  Pippo,"  she  said,  "  he  can  come  up  and  say  good- 
night to  me  before  he  goes.  I  am  good  for  nothing  but 
my  bed.  If  I  can  sleep  I  shall  be  able  for  all  that  is 
before  me  to-morrow."  The  triumph  was  quenched, 
however,  if  there  had  been  triumph,  when  she  gave  him 
her  hand,  Avith  a  wistful  smile,  and  a  sigh  that  filled 
that  to-morrow  with  the  terror  and  the  trouble  that 
must  be  in  it,  did  she  do  what  she  said.  John  went  up 
to  the  little  drawing-room  to  wait  for  Pippo,  with  a 
heavy  heart.  It  seemed  to  him  that  never  had  Elinor 
been  in  so  much  danger.  She  had  exposed  herself  to 
the  chance  of  losing  the  allegiance  of  her  son  :  she  was 
at  the  mercy  of  her  husband,  that  husband  whom  she 


THE  MAnklACK    OF  ELINOR.  431 

bar]  renounced,  yet  whom  she  had  not  refused  lo  s-ivo, 
whose  call  she  had  obeyed  to  help  him,  though  slio  liad 
thrown  off  all  the  bonds  of  love  and  duty  towards  him. 
She  had  not  had  the  strength  either  way  to  b^  consist- 
ent, to  carry  out  one  steady  policy.  It  was  cruel  of 
John  to  say  this,  for  but  for  him  and  his  remonstrances 
Elinor  would,  or  might  have,  fled,  and  avoided  this  last 
ordeal.  But  he  had  not  done  so,  and  now  here  she  was 
in  the  middle  of  her  life,  her  frail  ship  of  safety  driven 
about  among  the  rocks,  dependent  upon  the  magna- 
nimity of  the  husband  from  whom  she  had  fled,  and  the 
child  whom  she  had  deceived. 

"  Your  mother  is  very  tired,  Philip,"  he  said,  when 
the  boy  appeared.  "  I  was  to  tell  you  to  go  up  and  bid 
her  good-night  before  you  went  out  ;  for  it  will  proba- 
bly be  late  before  you  get  back,  if  you  think  you  are 
game  to  sit  out  the  debate." 

"I  will  sit  it  out,"  said  Philip,  with  no  laughter  in 
his  eye,  with  an  almost  solemn  air,  as  if  announcing  a 
grave  resolution.  He  went  up-stairs,  not  three  steps  at 
a  time,  as  was  his  wont,  but  soberly,  as  if  his  'years  had 
been  forty  instead  of  eighteen.  And  he  showed  no 
surprise  to  find  the  room  darkened,  though  Elinor  was  a 
woman  who  loved  the  light.  He  gave  his  mother  a  kiss 
and  smoothed  her  pillow  with  a  tender  touch  of  pity. 
"  Is  your  head  very  bad  ?  "  he  said. 

"It  is  only  that  I  am  dreadfully  tired,  Pippo.  I 
hope  I  shall  sleep:  and  it  will  help  me  to  think  you  are 
happy  with  Uncle  John." 

"  Then  I  shall  try  to  be  happy  with  Uncle  John,"  he 
said,  with  a  sort  of  smile.  "  Good-night,  mother  ;  I 
hope  you'll  be  better  to-morrow." 

"Ola,  yes,"  she  said.  "To-morrow  is  always  a  new 
day." 

He  seemed  in  the  half  light  to  nod  his  head,  and  then 
to  shake  it,  as  one  that  assents,  but  doubts — having 
many  troubled  thoughts  and  questions  in  his  mind. 
But  Pippo  did  not  at  all  expect  to  be  happy  with  Uncle 
John. 


432  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  EL1XOH. 


0  CHAPTEK  XLVI. 

IT  cannot  be'  said  that  Uncle  John  was  very  happy 
with  Philip,  ,but  that  was  a  thing  the  others  did  not 
take  into  account.  John  Tatharn  was  doing  for  the  boy 
as  much  as  a  man  could  do.  A  great  debate  was  ex- 
pected that  evening,  in  which  many  eminent  persons 
were  to  speak,  and  Mr.  Taihani  gave  Philip  a  hasty 
dinner  in  the  House  so  that  he  should  lose  nothing,  and 
he  found  him  a  corner  in  the  distinguished  strangers' 
gallery,  telling  him  with  a  smile  that  he  expected  him 
hereafter  to  prove  his  title  to  such  a  place.  But  Philip's 
smile  in  return  was  very  unlike  the  flush  of  pleasure 
that  would  have  lighted  it  up  only  yesterday.  John  felt 
that  the  boy  was  not  at  all  the  delightful  young  compan- 
ion, full  of  interest  in  everything,  that  he  had  been.  Per- 
haps he  was  on  his  good  behaviour,  on  his  dignity,  bent 
upon  showing  how  much  of  a  man  he  was  and  how  little 
influenced  by  passing  sentiments,  as  some  boys  do. 
Anyhow  it  was  certain  that  he  was. much  less  agreeable 
in  his  self-subdued  condition.  But  John  was  fort  unately 
much  interested  in  the  discussion,  in  which,  indeed,  he 
took  himself  a  slight  part,  and,  save  for  a  passing 
wonder  and  the  disappointment  of  the  moment,  did  not 
occupy  himself  so  very  much  with  Pippo.  When  he 
looked  into  the  corner,  however,  in  a  lull  of  the  debate, 
when  one  of  those  fools  who  rush  in  at  unguarded 
moments,  when  the  Speaker  chances  to  look  their  way, 
had  managed  to  get  upon  his  foolish  feet  to  the  de- 
spair of  all  around,  the  experienced  man  of  the  world 
received  a  curious  shock  from  the  sight  of  young- 
Philip's  intense  gravity,  and  the  self-absorbed,  uncon- 
scious look  he  wore.  The  boy  had  the  look  of  hearing 
nothing,  seeing  nothing  that  was  around  him,  of  being- 
lost  in  thoughts  of  his  own,  thoughts  far  too  serious 
and  troubled  for  his  age.  Had  he  discovered  t- 
thing?  What  did  he  know?  This  was  the  instinctive 
question  that  rose  in  John's  mind,  and  not  an  amused 


THE  IIAIUITAGI-:  OF  EL1XOR. 

anticipation  of  Pippo's  original  boyish  view  of  the 
question  and  the  speakers,  such  as  Lad  delighted  him 
on  the  boy's  previous  visits  to  the  House.  And  indeed 
Philip's  attention  was  little  fixed  upon  the  debate.  He 
tried  hard  to  bring  it  buck,  to  keep  it  there,  to  get  the 
question  into  his  mind,  but  in  spite  of  himself  his 
thoughts  flew  back  to  the  other  public  assembly  in 
which  he  had  sat  unnoticed  that  day  :  till  gradually  the 
aspect  of  things  changed  to  him,  the  Speaker  became 
the  judge,  the  wigged  secretaries  the  pleaders,  and  he 
almost  expected  to  see  that  sudden  apparition,  that 
sight  that  had  plucked  him  out  of  his  cureless  life  of 
boyhood  and  trust,  the  sight  of  his  mother  standing 
before  the  world  on  trial  for  her  life.  Oh,  no,  no,  not 
on  trial  at  all !  he  was  aware  of  that :  a  harmless  witness, 
doing  only  good.  The  judge  could  have  nothing  but 
polite  regard  for  her,  the  jury  admiration  and  thanks  for 
the  clear  testimony  which  took  a  weight  from  their  shoul- 
ders. But  before  her  sou  she  was  on  her  trial,  her  trial 
for  more  than  life — and  he  who  said  with  so  much  assur- 
ance that  his  mother  had  no  secrets  from  him  !  until  thb 
moment  arrived,  without  any  warning,  in  the  midst  of 
his  security,  which  proved  that  everything  had  been 
secret,  and  that  all  was  mystery — all  mystery  !  and 
nothing  sure  in  life. 

It  crossed  Philip's  mind  more  than  once  to  question 
John  Tat  ham  upon  this  dreadful  discovery  of  his — John, 
who  was  a  relation,  who  had  been  the  universal  referee 
of  the  household  as  long  as  he  could  remember,  Uncle 
John  must  know.  But  there  were  two  things  which 
hell  him  hack  :  first,  the  recollection  of  his  own  dis- 
dainful ou'en  -e  at  the  suggestion  that  Uncle  John,  an 
outsider,  could  know  more  than  he  did  of  the  family 
concerns  ;  and  partly  from  the  proud  determination  to 
ask  no  questions,  to  seek  no  information  that  was  not 
freely  given  to  him.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  this 
while  he  looked  out  from  his  corner  upon  the  lighted 
House,  seeing  men  move  up  and  down,  and  voices 
going  on,  and  the  sound  of  restless  members  coming 
and  going,  while  the  business  of  the  country  went  on. 

2-, 


434  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

It  was  far  more  important  than  any  private  affairs  that 
could  be  passing  in  an  individual  brain,  and  Philip 
knew  with  what  high-handed  certainty  he  would  have 
put  down  the  idea  that  to  himself  at  his  age  there  could 
be  anything  private  half  so  exciting,  half  so  full  of  in- 
terest, as  a  debate  on  the  policy  of  the  country  which 
might  carry  with  it  the  highest  issues.  But  conviction 
comes  readily  on  such  subjects  when  the  personal  in- 
terest comes  which  carries  every  other  away.  It  was 
while  a  minister  was  speaking,  and  everything  hanging 
on  his  words,  that  the  boy  made  up  his  mind  finally 
that  he  would  ask  no  questions.  He  would  ignore 
that  scene  in  the  Law  Courts,  as  if  it  had  not  been.  He 
would  say  nothing,  try  to  look  as  if  nothing  had  passed, 
and  wait  to  see  if  any  explanation  would  come. 

It  was  not,  perhaps,  then  to  be  wondered  at  if  John 
found  him  a  much  less  interesting  companion  than  ever 
before,  as  they  walked  home  together  in  the  small 
hours  of  the  night.  Mr.  Tatham's  own  speech  had  been 
short,  but  he  had  the  agreeable  consciousness  that  it 
had  been  an  effective  one,  and  he  was  prepared  to  find 
the  boy  excited  by  it,  and  full  of  applause  and  satis- 
faction. But  Philip  did  not  say  a  word  about  the 
speech.  He  was  only  a  boy,  and  it  may  be  supposed 
that  any  applause  from  him  would  have  had  little  im- 
portance for  the  famous  lawyer — the  highly-esteemed 
member  who  kept  his  independence,  and  whose 
speeches  always  secured  the  attention  of  the  House, 
and  carried  weight  as  among  the  few  utterances  which 
concerned  the  real  import  of  a  question  and  not  its 
mere  party  meaning.  But  John  was  hurt  more  than 
he  could  have  thought  possible  by  Philip's  silence.  He 
even  tried  to  lead  the  conversation  artfully  to  that 
point  in  the  debate,  thinking  perhaps  the  boy  was  shy 
of  speaking  on  the  subject — but  with  no  effect.  It  was 
exceedingly  strange.  Had  he  been  deceived  in  Philip? 
had  the  boy  really  no  interest  in  subjects  of  an  elevated 
description?  or  was  he  ill?  or  what  was  the  matter 
with  him  ?  It  troubled  John  to  let  him  go  on  alone 
from  Halkin  Street  to  his  lodging,  with  a  vague  sense 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  435 

that  something  might  happen.     But  that  was,  of  con  rso, 

'»surd.     "  Tell  your  mother  I'll  come  round  in  the 

toon    to-morrow,  as  soon  as  I  am    free,"    he  said, 

holding  Philip's  hand.     And  then  he  added,  paternally, 

still   holding    that   hand,    "Go  to   bed   at  once,  boy. 

You've  had  a  tiring  day." 

"Yes— I  suppose  so,"  said  Philip,  drawing  his  hand 
away. 

"  I  hope  you  haven't  done  too  much,"  said  John,  still 
lingering.  "You're  too  young  for  politics — and  to  sit 
)  late.  I  was  wrong  to  keep  you  out  of  bed." 

"  I  hope  I'm  not  such  a  child  as  that,"  said  Philip,  with 
a  half-smile  :  and  then  he  went  away,  and  John  Tatham, 
with  an  anxious  heart,  closed  behind  him  his  own  door. 
If  it  were  not  for  Elinor  and  her  boy  what  a  life  free  of 
anxiety  John  would  have  had  !  Never  any  need  to 
think  with  solicitude  of  anything  outside  that  peaceful 
door,  no  trouble  with  other  people's  feelings,  with  in- 
vestigations what  this  or  that  look  or  word  meant. 
But  perhaps  it  was  Elinor  and  her  boy,  after  all  (none 
of  his  !  thinking  of  him  as  an  outsider,  having  nothing 
to  do  with  their  most  intimate  circle  of  confidence  and 
natural  defence),  who,  by  means  of  that  very  anxiety, 
kept  alive  the  higher  principles  of  humanity  in  John 
Tatham's  heart. 

Philip  went  home,  walking  quickly  through  the  silent 
streets.  They  were  very  silent  at  that  advanced  hour, 
yet  not  so  completely  but  that  there  was  a  woman  who 
came  up  to  the  boy  at  the  corner.  Philip  neither  knew 
nor  desired  to  know  what  she  said.  He  thought  noth- 
ing about  her  one  way  or  another.  He  took  a  shilling 
out  of  his  pocket  and  threw  it  to  her  as  he  passed — 
walking  on  with  the  quick,  elastic  step  which  the  sud- 
den acquaintance  he  had  made  with  care  had  not  been 
able  to  subdue.  He  saw  that  there  was  still  a  faint 
light  in  his  mother's  window  when  he  reached  the 
house,  but  he  would  not  disturb  her.  How  little 
would  he  have  thought  of  disturbing  her  on  any  other 
occasion  !  "  Are  you  asleep,  mother  ?  "  he  would  have 
said,  looking  in  ;  and  the  time  had  never  been  when 


436  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

Elinor  was  asleep.  She  had  always  heard  him,  always 
replied,  always  been  delighted  to  hear  the  account  of 
what  he  had  been  doing,  and  how  he  had  enjoyed  him- 
self. But  not  to-night.  With  a  heart  full  of  longing, 
yet  of  a  sick  revolt  against  the  sight  of  her,  he  went 
past  her  door  to  his  room.  He  did  not  want  to  see 
her,  and  yet — oh,  if  she  had  only  called  to  him,  if  she 
had  but  said  a  word  ! 

Elinor  for  her  part  was  not  asleep.  She  had'  slept  a 
little  while  she  was  sure  that  Philip  was  safely  disposed 
of  and  herself  secured  from  all  interruption  ;  but  when 
the  time  came  for  his  return  she  slept  no  longer,  and 
had  been  lying  for  a  long  time  holding  her  breath, 
listening  to  every  sound,  when  she  heard  his  key  in  the 
latch  and  his  foot  on  the  stair.  Would  he  come  in  as 
he  always  did  ?  or  would  he  remember  her  complaint 
of  being  tired,  a  complaint  she  so  seldom  made?  It 
was  as  a  blow  to  Elinor  when  she  heard  his  step  go  on 
past  her  door  :  and  yet  she  was  glad.  Had  he  come  in 
there  was  a  desperate  thought  in  her  mind  that  she 
would  call  him  to  her  bedside  and  in  the  dark,  with  his 
hand  in  hers,  tell  him — all  that  there  was  to  tell.  But 
it  was  again  a  relief  vhen  he  passed  on,  and  she  felt 
that  she  was  spared  for  an  hour  or  two,  spared  for  the 
new  day,  which  perhaps  would  give  her  courage.  It 
was  an  endless  night,  long  hours  of  dark,  and  then 
longer  hours  of  morning  light,  too  early  for  anything, 
while  still  nobody  in  the  house  was  stirring.  She  had 
scarcely  slept  at  all  during  that  long  age  of  weary  and 
terrible  thought.  For  it  was  not  as  if  she  had  but  one 
thing  to  think  of.  When  her  mind  turned,  like  her 
restless  body,  from  one  side  to  another,  it  was  only  to 
a  change  of  pain.  What  was  it  she  had  said,  standing 
up  before  earth  and  heaven,  and  calling  God  to  witness 
that  what  she  said  was  true?  It  had  been  true,  and  yet 
she  knew  that  it  was  not,  and  that  she  had  saved  her 
husband's  honour  at  the  cost  of  her  own.  Oh,  not  in 
those  serious  and  awful  watches  of  the  night  can  such  a 
defence  be  accepted  as  that  the  letter  of  her  testimony 
was  true  !  She  did  not  attempt  to  defend  herself.  She 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  ELINOR.  437 

only  iritd  to  turn  to  another  thought  that  might  be  less 
bitter  :  and  then  she  was  confronted  by  the  confession 
that  she  must  make  to  her  boy.  She  must  tell  him  that 
she  had  deceived  him  all  his  life,  hid  from  him  what  he 
ought  to  have  known,  separated  him  from  his  father  and 
his  family,  kept  him  in  ignorance,  despite  ah1  that  had 
been  said  to  her,  despite  every  argument.  And  when 
Elinor  in  her  misery  fled  from  that  thought,  what  was 
there  else  to  think  of  ?  There  was  her  husband,  Pippo's 
father,  from  whom  he  could  no  longer  be  kept.  If  she 
had  thought  herself  justified  in  stealing  her  child  away 
out  of  fear  of  the  influence  that  father  might  have  upon 
him,  how  would  it  be  now  when  they  must  be  restored 
to  each  other,  at  an  age  much  more  dangerous  for  the 
boy  than  in  childhood,  and  with  all  the  attractions  of 
mystery  and  novelty  and  the  sense  that  his  father  had 
been  wronged  !  When  she  escaped  from  that,  the  most 
terrible  thought  of  all,  feeling  her  brain  whirl  and  her 
heart  burn  as  she  imagined  her  child  turning  from  the 
mother  who  had  deceived  him  to  the  father  who  had  been 
deprived  of  him,  her  mind  went  off  to  that  father  him- 
self, from  whom  she  had  fled,  whom  she  had  judged  and 
condemned,  but  who  had  repaid  her  by  no  persecution, 
ao  interference,  no  pursuit,  but  an  acceptance  of  her 
verdict,  never  molesting  her,  leaving  her  safe  in  the 
possession  of  her  boy.  Perhaps  there  were  other  ways 
in  which  Phil  Comptou's  magnanimity  have  been  looked 
at,  in  which  it  would  have  shown  in  less  favourable 
colours.  But  Elinor  was  not  ready  to  take  that  view. 
Her  tower  of  justice  and  truth  and  honour  had  crumbled 
over  her  head.  She  was  standing  among  her  ruins, 
feeling  that  nothing  was  left  to  her,  nothing  upon  which 
she  could  build  herself  a  structure  of  self-defence.  All 
was  wrong  ;  a  series  of  mistakes  and  failures,  to  say  no 
worse.  She  had  driven  on  ever  wilful  all  through, 
escaping  from  every  pang  she  could  avoid,  throwing  off 
every  yoke  that  she  did  not  choose  to  bear  :  until  now 
here  she  stood  to  face  all  that  she  had  fled  from,  unable 
to  elude  them  more,  meeting  them  as  so  many  ghosts 
in  her  way.  Oh,  how  true  it  was  what  John  had  said 


438  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

to  her  so  long,  so  long  ago — that  she  was  not  one  who 
would  bear,  who  if  she  were  disappointed  and  wronged 
could  endure  and  surmount  her  trouble  by  patience ! 
Oh,  no,  no !  She  had  been  one  who  had  put  up  with 
nothing,  who  had  taken  her  own  way.  And  now  she 
was  surrounded  on  every  side  by  the  difficulties  she  had 
thrust  away  from  her,  but  which  now  could  be  thrust 
away  no  more. 

It  may  be  imagined  what  the  night  was  which  Elinor 
spent  sleepless,  struggling  one  after  another  with  these 
thoughts,  finding  no  comfort  anywhere  wherever  she 
turned.  She  had  not  been  without  many  a  struggle 
even  in  the  most  quiet  of  the  years  that  had  passed — 
in  one  long  dream  of  peace  as  it  seemed  now ;  but  never 
as  now  had  she  been  met  wherever  she  turned  by  an- 
other and  another  lion  in  the  way.  She  got  up  very 
early,  with  a  feeling  that  movement  had  something  lull- 
ing and  soothing  in  it,  and  that  to  lie  there  a  prey  to  all 
these  thoughts  was  like  lying  on  the  rack — to  the  great 
surprise  of  the  kind  landlady,  who  came  stealing  into 
her  room  with  the  inevitable  cup  of  tea,  and  whose  in- 
quiry how  the  poor  lady  was,  was  taken  out  of  her 
mouth  by  the  unexpected  apparition  of  the  supposed 
invalid,  fully  dressed,  moving  about  the  room,  with  all 
the  air  of  having  been  up  for  hours.  Elinor  asked,  with 
a  sudden  precaution,  that  the  newspapers  might  be 
brought  up  to  her,  not  so  much  for  her  own  satisfac- 
tion— for  it  made  her  heart  sick  to  think  of  reading 
over  in  dreadful  print,  as  would  be  done  that  morning 
at  millions  of  breakfast-tables,  her  own  words  :  perhaps 
with  comments  on  herself  and  her  history,  which  might 
fall  into  Pippo's  hands,  and  be  read  by  him  before  he 
knew  :  which  was  a  sudden  spur  to  herself  and  evidence 
of  the  dread  necessity  of  letting  him  know  that  story 
from  her  own  lips,  which  had  not  occurred  to  her  be- 
fore. She  glanced  over  the  report  with  a  sickening 
sense  that  all  the  privacy  of  sheltered  life  and  honour- 
able silence  was  torn  off  from  her,  and  that  she  was  ex- 
posed as  on  a  pillory  to  the  stare  and  the  remarks  of 
the  world,  and  crushed  the  paper  away  like  a  noxious 


THE  CARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  439 

tliiug  into  a  drawer  where  the  boy  at  least  would  never 
find  it.  Vain  thought !  as  if  there  was  but  one  paper 
in  the  world,  as  if  he  could  not  find  it  at  every  street 
corner,  thrust  into  his  hand  even  as  he  walked  along  ; 
but  at  all  events  for  the  moment  he  would  not  see  it, 
and  she  would  have  time — time  to  tell  him  before  that 
revelation  could  come  in  his  way.  She  went  down-stairs, 
with  what  a  tremor  in  her  and  sinking  of  her  heart  it 
would  be  impossible  to  say.  To  have  to  condemn  her- 
self to  her  only  child  ;  to  humble  herself  before  him, 
her  boy, who  thought  there  was  no  one  like  his  mother  ; 
to  let  him  know  that  he  had  been  deceived  all  his  life, 
he  who  thought  she  had  always  told  him  everything. 
Oh,  poor  mother  !  and  oh,  poor  boy  ! 

She  was  still  sitting  by  the  breakfast-table,  waiting, 
in  a  chill  fever,  if  such  a  thing  can  be,  for  Philip,  when 
a  thing  occurred  which  no  one  could  have  thought  of, 
and  yet  which  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world 
— which  came  upon  Elinor  like  a  thunderbolt,  shatter- 
ing all  her  plans  again  just  at  the  moment  when,  after 
so  much  shrinking  and  delay,  she  had  at  last  made  up 
her  mind  to  the  one  thing  that  must  be  done  at  once. 
The  sound  of  the  driving  up  of  a  cab  to  the  door  made 
her  go  to  the  window  to  look  out,  without  producing 
any  expectation  in  her  mind  :  for  people  were  coining 
and  going  in  Ebury  Street  all  day  long.  She  saw,  how- 
ever, a  box  which  she  recognised  upon  the  cab,  and  then 
the  door  was  opened  and  Mrs.  Dennistoun  stepped  out. 
Her  mother!  the  wonder  was  not  that  she  came  now, 
but  that  she  had  not  come  much  sooner.  No  letters  for 
several  days,  her  child  and  her  child's  cbild  in  town, 
and  trouble  in  the  air  !  Mrs.  Dennistoun  had  borne  it 
as  long  as  she  could,  but  there  had  come  a  moment 
when  she  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  she  too  had  fol- 
lowed Pippo's  example  and  taken  the  night  mail.  Eli- 
nor stood  motionless  at  the  window,  and  .saw  her  mother 
arrive,  and  did  not  feel  capable  of  going  to  meet  her, 
or  of  telling  whether  it  was  some  dreadful  aggravation 
of  evil,  or  an  interposition  of  Providence  to  save  her 
for  another  hour  at  least  from  the  ordeal  before  her. 


440  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR, 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

MRS.  DENNISTOTW  had  a  great  deal  to  say  about  her- 
self and  the  motives  which  had  at  the  last  been  too  much 
for  her,  which  had  forced  her  to  come  after  her  children 
at  a  moment's  notice,  feeling  that  she  could  bear  the 
uncertainty  about  them  no  longer  ;  and  it  was  a  thing 
so  unusual  with  her  to  have  much  to  say  about  herself 
that  there  was  certainly  something  apologetic,  some- 
thing self -defensive  in  this  unaccustomed  outburst. 
Perhaps  she  had  begun  to  feel  a  little  the  unconscious 
criticism  that  gathers  round  the  elder  person  in  a  house, 
the  inclination  involuntarily — which  every  one  would 
repudiate,  yet  which  nevertheless  is  true— to  attribute 
to  her  a  want  of  perception,  perhaps — oh,  not  unkindly  ! 
— a  little  blunting  of  the  faculties,  a  suggestion  quite 
unintentional  that  she  is  not  what  she  once  was.  She 
explained  herself  so  distinctly  that  there  was  no  doubt 
there  was  some  self-defence  in  it.  "I  had  not  had  a 
letter  for  three  days." 

And  Elinor  WHS  far  more  humble  than  her  wont.  "I 
know,  mother  :  I  felt  as  if  it  were  impossible  to  write — 
till  it  was  over " 

"My  darling!  I  thought  at  last  I  must  come  and 
stand  by  you.  I  felt  that  I  ought  to  have  seen  that  all 
the  time — that  you  should  have  had  your  mother  by 
your  side  to  give  you  countenance." 

"  I  had  John  with  me,  mother." 

"  Then  it  is  over  !  "  Mrs.  Dennistoun  cried. 

And  at  that  moment  Pippo,  very  late,  pale,  and  with 
eyes  which  were  red  with  sleeplessness,  and  perhaps 
with  tears,  came  in.  Elinor  gave  her  mother  a  quick 
look,  almost  of  blame,  and  then  turned  to  the  boy.  She 
did  not  mean  it,  and  yet  Mrs.  Dennistoun  felt  as  if  the 
suggestion,  "  He  might  never  have  known  had  you  not 
called  out  like  that,"  was  in  her  daughter's  eyes. 

"  Pippo  !  "  she  said.  "  Why,  Elinor  !  what  have  you 
been  doing  to  the  boy  ?  " 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  441 

"He  does  not  look  well,"  said  Elinor,  suddenly  wak- 
ing up  to  that  anxiety  which  had  been  always  so  easily 
roused  in  respect  to  Pippo.  "  He  was  very  late  last 
night.  He  was  at  the  House  with  John,"  she  added, 
involuntarily,  with  an  apology  to  her  mother  for  the 
neglect  which  had  extended  to  Pippo  too. 

"There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me,"  he  said,  with 
a  touch  of  sullenness  in  his  tone. 

The  two  women  looked  at  each  other  with  all  the 
vague  trouble  in  their  eyes  suddenly  concentrated  upon 
young  Philip,  but  they  said  nothing  more,  as  he  sat 
down  at  table  and  began  to  play  with  the  breakfast,  for 
which  he  had  evidently  no  appetite.  No  one  had  ever 
seen  that  sullen  look  in  Pippo's  face  before.  He  bent 
his  head  over  the  table  as  if  he  were  intent  upon  the 
food  which  choked  hirn  when  he  tried  to  eat,  and  which 
he  loathed  the  very  sight  of — and  did  not  say  a  word. 
They  had  certainly  not  been  very  light-hearted  before, 
but  the  sight  of  the  boy  thus  obscured  and  changed 
made  all  the  misery  more  evident.  There  was  always  a 
possibility  of  over-riding  the  storm  so  long  as  all  was 
well  with  Pippo  :  but  his  changed  countenance  veiled 
the  very  sun  in  the  skies. 

"  You  don't  seem  surprised  to  see  me  here,"  his  grand- 
mother said. 

"  Oh  ! — no,  I  ana  not  surprised.  I  wonder  you  did 
not  come  sooner.  Have  you  been  travelling  all  night  ?  " 
he  said. 

"  Just  as  you  did,  Pippo.  I  drove  into  Penrith  last 
night  and  caught  the  mail  train.  I  was  seized  with  a 
panic  about  you,  and  felt  that  I  must  see  for  myself." 

"  It  is  not  the  first  time  you  have  taken  a  panic  about 
us,  mother,"  said  Elinor,  forcing  a  smile. 

"No  ;  but  it  is  almost  the  first  time  I  have  acted  up- 
on it,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  with  that  faint  instinct  of 
self-defence  ;  "  but  I  think  you  must  have  needed  me 
more  than  usual  to  keep  you  in  order.  You  must  have 
been  going  out  too  much,  keeping  late  hours.  You  are 
pale  enough,  Elinor,  but  Pippo— Pippo  has  suffered 
still  more." 


442  TEE  MAURI  AGE  OF  ELINOR. 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  Philip,  raising  his  shoulders  and 
stooping  his  head  over  the  table,  "  granny,  that  there 
is  nothing  the  matter  with  me." 

And  he  took  no  part  in  the  conversation  as  they  went 
on  talking,  of  any  subjects  but  those  that  were  most 
near  their  hearts.  They  had,  indeed,  no  thoughts  at 
all  to  spare  but  those  that  were  occupied  with  the  situ- 
ation, and  with  this  new  feature  in  it,  Pippo's  worn  and 
troubled  looks,  yet  had  to  talk  of  something,  of  noth- 
ing, while  the  meal  went  on,  which  was  no  meal  at 
all  for  any  of  them.  When  it  was  over  at  last  Pippo 
rose  abruptly  from  the  table. 

"  Are  you  going  out  ?  "  Elinor  said,  alarmed,  rising 
too.  "Have  you  any  engagement  with  the  Marshalls 
for  to-day  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  Philip  said;  "Mr.  Marshall  was  ill 
yesterday.  I  didn't  see  them.  I'm  not  going  out.  I 
am  going  to  my  room." 

"  You've  got  a  headache,  Pippo  ! " 

"Nothing  of  the  kind  !  I  tell  you  there  is  noth- 
ing the  matter  with  me.  I'm  only  going  to  my 
room." 

Elinor  put  her  hands  on  his  arm.  "Pippo,  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you  before  you  go  out.  Will  you 
promise  to  let  me  know  before  you  go  out  ?  I  don't 
want  to  keep  you  back  from  anything,  but  I  have  some- 
thing that  I  must  say." 

He  did  not  ask  with  his  usual  interest  what  it  was. 
He  showed  no  curiosity  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  drew  his 
arm  out  of  her  hold  almost  rudely.  "  Of  course,"  he 
said,  "  I  will  come  in  here  before  I  go  out.  I  have  no 
intention  of  going  out  now." 

And  thus  he  left  them,  and  went  with  a  heavy  step, 
oh,  how  different  from  Pippo's  flying  foot  :  so  that  they 
could  count  every  step,  up-stairs. 

"What  is  the  matter,  what  is  the  matter,  Elinor?" 

"I  know  nothing,"  she  said;  "nothing!  He  was 
like  himself  yesterday  morning,  full  of  life.  Unless  he 
is  ill,  I  cannot  understand  it.  But,  mother,  I  have  to 
tell  him — everything  to-day." 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  443 

"  God  grant  it  may  not  be  too  late,  Elinor !  "  Mrs. 
Dennistoun  said. 

'•  Too  late  ?  How  can  it  be  too  late  ?  Yes  ;  perhaps 
you  are  right,  John  and  you.  He  ought  to  have  known 
from  the  beginning  ;  he  ought  to  have  been  told  when 
he  was  a  child.  I  acknowledge  that  I  was  wrong  ;  but 
it  is  no  use,"  she  said,  wiping  away  some  fiery  tears, 
"to  go  back  upon  that  now." 

"  John  could  not  have  told  him  anything  ? "  Mrs. 
Dennistoun  said,  doubtfully. 

"  John  !  my  best  friend,  who  has  always  stood  by  me. 
Oh,  never,  never.  How  little  you  know  him,  mother  ! 
He  has  been  imploring  me  every  day,  almost  upon  his 
knees,  to  tell  Pippo  everything  ;  and  I  promised  to  do 
it  as  soon  as  the  time  was  come.  And  then  last  night  I 
was  so  glad  to  think  that  he  was  engaged  with  John, 
and  I  so  worn  out,  not  fit  for  anything.  And  then  this 
morning " 

e<  Then — this  morning  I  arrived,  just  when  I  would 
have  been  better  away  !  " 

"  Don't  say  that,  mother.  It  is  always,  always  well 
you  should  be  with  your  children.  And,  oh,  if  I  had 
but  taken  your  advice  years  and  years  ago  !  " 

How  easy  it  is  to  wish  this  when  fate  overtakes  us, 
when  the  thing  so  long  postponed,  so  long  pushed 
away  from  us,  has  to  be  done  at  last !  There  is,  I  fear, 
no  repentance  in  it,  only  the  intolerable  sense  that 
the  painful  act  might  have  been  over  long  ago,  and 
the  soul  free  now  of  a  burden  which  is  so  terrible  to 
bear. 

Philip  did  not  leave  his  room  all  the  morning.  His 
mother,  overwhelmed  now  by  the  new  anxiety  about 
his  health,  which  had  no  part  in  her  thoughts  before, 
went  to  his  door  and  knocked  several  times,  always 
with  the  intention  of  going  in,  of  insisting  upon  the  re- 
moval of  all  barriers,  and  of  telling  her  story,  the  story 
which  now  was  as  fire  in  her  veins  and  had  to  be  told. 
But  he  had  locked  his  door,  and  only  answered  from 
within  that  he  was  readiug — getting  up  something  that 
he  had  forgotten — and  begged  her  to  leave  him  undis- 


444  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

turbed  till  lunch.  Poor  Elinor !  Her  story  was,  as  I 
have  said,  like  fire  in  her  veins  ;  but  when  the  moment 
came,  and  a  little  more  delay,  an  hour,  a  morning  was 
possible,  she  accepted  it  like  a  boon  from  heaven, 
though  she  knew  very  well  all  the  same  that  it  was  but 
prolonging  the  agony,  and  that  to  get  it  accomplished 
— to  get  it  over — was  the  only  thing  to  desire.  She 
tried  to  arrange  her  thoughts,  to  think  how  she  \vas 
to  tell  it,  in  tho  hurrying  yet  flying  minutes  when  she 
sat  alone,  listening  now  and  then  to  Philip's  movements 
over  her  head,  for  he  was  not  still  as  a  boy  should 
be  who  was  reading,  but  moved  about  his  room,  with  a 
nervous  restlessness  that  seemed  almost  equal  to  her 
own.  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  to  leave  her  daughter  free  for 
the  conversation  that  ought  to  take  place  between 
Elinor  and  her  son,  had  gone  to  lie  down,  and  lay  in 
Elinor's  room,  next  door  to  the  boy,  listening  to  every 
sound,  and  hoping,  hoping  that  they  would  get  it  over 
before  she  went  down-stairs  again.  She  did  not  believe 
that  Philip  would  stand  out  against  his  mother,  whom 
he  loved.  Oh,  if  they  could  but  get  it  over,  that  expla- 
nation—if the  boy  but  knew  !  But  it  was  apparent 
enough,  when  she  came  down  to  luncheon,  where  Eli- 
nor awaited  hex*,  pale  and  anxious,  and  where  Philip 
followed,  so  iinlike  himself,  that  no  explanation  had  yet 
taken  place  between  them.  And  the  luncheon  was  as 
miserable  a  pretence  at  a  meal  as  the  breakfast  had 
been — worse  as  a  repetition,  yet  better  in  so  far  that 
poor  Pippo,  with  his  boyish  wholesome  appetite,  was 
by  this  time  too  hungry  to  be  resti'ained  even  by  the 
unusual  burden  of  his  uuhappiness,  and  ate  heartily, 
although  he  was  bitterly  ashamed  of  so  doing  :  which 
perhaps  made  him  a  little  better,  and  certainly  did  a 
great  deal  of  good  to  the  ladies,  who  thus  were  con- 
vinced that  whatever  the  matter  might  be,  he  was  not 
ill  at  least.  He  was  about  to  return  up-stairs  after 
luncheon  was  over,  but  Elinor  caught  him  by  the  arm  : 
"  You  are  not  going  to  your  room  again,  Pippo  ?  " 

"  I — have  not  finished  my  reading,"  he  said. 

"  I  have  a  claim  before  your  reading.    I  have  a  great 


THE  XAURIMH-;   <>}•'  ELINOR.  4-K> 

deal  to  say  to  you,  and  I  cannot  put  it  off  any  longer. 
It  must  be  said " 

"As  you  please,  mother,"  he  replied,  with  an  air  of 
endurance.  And  he  opened  the  door  for  her  and 
followed  her  up  to  the  drawing-room,  the  three  genera- 
tions going  one  before  the  other,  the  anxious  grand- 
mother first,  full  of  sympathy  for  both  ;  the  mother 
trembling  in  every  limb,  feeling  the  great  crisis  of  her 
life  before  her  ;  the  boy  with  his  heart  seared,  half  bit- 
ter, half  contemptuous  of  the  explanation  which  he  had 
forestalled,  which  came  too  late.  Mrs.  Dennistoun 
turned  and  kissed  first  one  and  then  the  other  with 
quivering  lips.  "  Oh,  Pippo,  be  kind  to  your  mother  ; 
she  never  will  have  such  need  of  your  kindness  again  in 
all  your  life."  The  boy  could  almost  have  struck  her  for 
this  advice.  It  raised  a  kind  of  savage  passion  in  him 
to  be  told  to  be  kind  to  his  mother — kind  to  her,  when 
he  had  held  her  above  all  beings  on  the  earth,  and 
prided  himself  all  his  life  upon  his  devotion  to  her  ! 
What  Mrs.  Deunistoun  said  to  Elinor  I  cannot  tell,  but 
she  clasped  her  hands  and  gave  her  an  imploring  look, 
which  was  almost  as  bitterly  taken  as  her  appeal  to 
Philip.  It  besought  her  to  tell  everything,  to  hide  noth- 
ing ;  and  what  was  Elinor's  meaning  but  to  tell  every- 
thing, to  lay  bare  her  heart  ? 

But  once  more  at  this  moment  an  interruption — the 
most  wonderful  and  unthought-of  of  all  interruptions 
— came.  I  suppose  it  must  have  been  announced  by 
the  usual  summons  at  the  street-door,  and  that  in  their 
agitation  they  had  not  heard  it.  But  all  that  I  know 
is,  that  when  Mrs.  Dennistoun  turned  to  leave  the 
mother  and  son  to  their  conversation,  which  was  so  full 
of  fate,  the  door  of  the  drawing-room  opened  almost 
upon  her  as  she  was  about  to  go  out,  and  with  a  little 
demonstration  and  pride,  as  of  a  name  which  it  was  a 
distinction  even  to  be  permitted  to  say,  of  a  visitor 
whose  arrival  could  not  be  but  an  honour  and  delight- 
ful surprise,  the  husband  of  the  landlady — the  man  of 
the  house,  once  a  butler  of  the  highest  pretensions,  now 
only  condescending  to  serve  his  lodgers  when  the  occa- 


446  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

sion  was  dignified — swept  into  the  room,  noiseless  and 
solemn,  holding  open  the  door,  and  announced  "  Lord 
St.  Serf."  Mrs.  Dcnnistoun  fell  back  as  if  she  had  met 
a  ghost  ;  and  Elinor,  too,  drew  back  a  step,  becoming 
as  pale  as  if  she  had  been  the  ghost  her  mother  saw. 
The  gasp  of  the  long  breath  they  both  drew  made  a 
sound  in  the  room  where  the  very  air  seemed  to  tingle  ; 
and  young  Philip,  raising  his  head,  saw,  coming  in,  the 
man  whom  he  had  seen  in  court — the  man  who  had 
gazed  at  him  in  the  theatre,  the  man  of  the  opera-glass. 
But  was  this  then  not  the  Philip  Compton  for  whom 
Elinor  Dennistoun  had  stood  forth,  and  borne  witness 
before  all  the  world  ? 

He  came  in  and  stood  without  a  word,  waiting  for  a 
moment  till  the  servant  Avas  gone  and  the  door  closed  ; 
and  then  he  advanced  with  a  step,  the  Very  assurance 
and  quickness  of  which  showed  his  hesitation  and  un- 
certainty. He  did  not  hold  out  his  hands — much  less 
his  arms — to  her.  "Nell?"  he  said,  as  if  he  had  been 
asking  a  question,  "Nell?" 

She  seemed  to  open  her  lips  to  speak,  but  brought 
forth  no  sound  ;  and  then  Mrs.  Dennistoun  came  in 
with  the  grave  voice  of  every  day,  "  Will  you  sit  down  ?  " 

He  looked  round  at  her,  perceiving  her  for  the  first 
time.  "  Ah,"  he  said,  "  mamma  !  how  good  that  you 
are  here.  It  is  a  little  droll  though,  don't  you  think, 
Avhen  a  man  comes  into  the  bosom  of  his  family  after 
an  absence  of  eighteen  years,  that  the  only  thing  that  is 
said  to  him  should  be,  '  Will  you  sit  down  ?  '  Better 
that,  however,  a  great  deal,  than  'Will  you  go  away  ?  "' 

He  sat  down  as  she  invited  him,  with  a  short  laugh. 
He  was  perfectly  composed  in  manner.  Looking  round 
him  with  curious  eyes,  "Was  this  one  of  the  places,"  he 
said,  "  Nell,  that  we  stayed  in  in  the  old  times  ?  " 

She  amwered  "  No  "  under  her  breath,  her  paleness 
suddenly  giving  way  to  a  hot  flush  of  feverish  agitation. 
And  then  she  took  refuge  in  a  vacant  chair,  unable  to 
support  herself,  and  he  sat  too,  and  the  party  looked — 
but  for  that  agitation  in  Elinor's  1'aoo,  which  she  could 
not  master — as  if  the  ladies  were  receiving  and  he  pay- 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  447 

ing  a  morning  call.  The  other  two,  however,  did  not  sit 
down.  Young  Philip,  confused  and  excited,  went  away 
to  the  second  room,  the  little  back  drawing-room  of  the 
little  London  house,  which  can  never  be  made  to  look 
anything  but  an  anteroom — never  a  habitable  place — 
and  went  to  the  window,  and  stood  there  as  if  he  were 
looking  out,  though  the  window  was  of  coloured  glass, 
and  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen.  Mrs.  Denni.stoun 
stood  with  her  hand  upon  the  back  of  a  chair,  her 
heart  beating  too,  and  yet  the  most  collected  of  them 
all,  waiting,  with  her  eyes  on  Elinora,  sign  to  know  her 
will,  whether  she  should  go  or  stay.  It  was  the  visitor 
who  was  the  first  to  speak. 

«  "Let  me  beg  you,"  he  said,  with  a  little  impatience 
in  his  voice,  "  to  sit  down  too.  It  is  evident  that  Nell's 
reception  of  me  is  not  likely  to  be  so  warm  as  to  make 
it  unpleasant  for  a  third  party.  There  was  a  fourth 
party  in  the  room  a  minute  ago,  if  my  eyes  did  not  de- 
ceive me.  Ah  !  " — his  glance  went  rapidly  to  where 
Philip's  tall  boyish  figure,  with  his  back  turned,  was 
visible  against  the  further  window — "  that's  all  right," 
he  said,  "now  I  presume  everybody's  here." 

"Had  we  expected  your  visit,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun, 
faltering,  after  a  moment,  as  Elinor  did  not  speak,  "  we 
should  have  been — better  prepared  to  receive  you,  Mr. 
Compton." 

"That's  not  spoken  with  your  usual  cleverness,"  he 
said,  with  a  laugh.  "  You  used  to  be  a  great  deal  too 
clever  for  me,  you  and  Nell  too.  But  if  she  did  not  ex- 
pect to  see  me,  I  don't  know  what  she  thought  I  was 
made  of — everything  that  is  bad,  I  suppose :  and  yet 
you  know  I  could  have  worried  vour  life  out  of  you  if  I 
had  liked,  Nell." 

She  turned  to  him  for  the  first  time,  and,  putting  her 
hands  together,  said  almost  iuaudibly,  "I  know — I 
know.  I  have  thought  of  that,  and  I  am  not  un- 
grateful." 

"  Grateful !  Well,  perhaps  you  have  not  much  call 
for  that,  poor  little  woman,  t  don't  doubt  I  behaved 
like  a  brute,  and  you  were  quite  right  in  doing  what 


44  S  .7777-;  MAlilt/Affh'   OF   KUXOR. 

you  did  ;  but  you've  taken  it  out  of  me  since,  Nell,  all 
the  same." 

Then  there  was  again  a  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
labouring,  which  she  could  not  quite  conceal,  of  her 
breath. 

"  You  wouldn't  believe  me,"  he  resumed  after  a  mo- 
ment, "  if  I  were  to  set  up  a  sentimental  pose,  like  a 
sort  of  a  disconsolate  widower,  eh,  would  you  ?  Of 
course  it  was  a  position  that  was  not  without  its  advan- 
tages. I  was  not  much  made  for  a  family  man,  and 
both  in  the  way  of  expense  and  in — other  ways,  it 
suited  me  well  enough.  Nobody  could  expect  me  to 
marry  them  or  their  daughters,  don't  you  see,  when 
they  knew  I  had  a  wife  alive?  So  I  was  allowed  my 
little  amusements.  You  never  went  in  for  that  kind  of 
thing,  Nell  ?  Don't  snap  me  up.  You  know  I  told  you 
I  never  was  against  a  little  flirtation.  It  makes  a  wom- 
an more  tolerant,  in  my  opinion,  just  to  know  how  to 
amuse  herself  a  little.  But  Nell  was  never  one  of  that 
kind— 

"I  hope  not,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  to  whom 
he  had  turned,  with  indignation. 

"  I  don't  see  where  the  emphasis  comes  in.  She  was 
one  that  a  man  could  be  as  sure  of  as  of  Westminster 
Abbey.  The  heart  of  her  husband  rests  upon  her — isn't 
that  what  the  fellow  in  the  Bible  says,  or  words  to  that 
effect  ?  Nell  was  always  a  kind  of  a  Bible  to  me.  And 
you  may  say  that  in  that  case  to  think  of  her  amusing 
herself  !  But  you  will  allow  she  always  did  take  every- 
thing too  much  au  grand  serieux.  No  ?  to  be  sure,  you'll 
allow  nothing.  But  still  that  was  the  truth.  However, 
I'll  allow  something  if  you  won't.  I'm  past  my  first 
youth.  Oh,  you,  not  a  bit  of  it !  You're  just  as  fresh 
and  as  pretty,  by  George !  as  ever  you  were.  When 
I  saw  you  stand  up  in  that  court  yesterday  looking  as 
if — not  a  week  had  passed  since  I  saw  you  last,  by  Jove  ! 

Nell- And  how  you  were  hating  it,  poor  old  girl, 

and  had  come  out  straining  your  poor  little  conscience, 
and  saying  what  you  didn't  want  to  say — for  the  sake  of 
a  worthless  fellow  like  me " 


TUB  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  449 

A  sob  came  out  of  Elinor's  breast,  and  something  half 
inaudible  besides,  like  a  name. 

••'I  can  tell  you  this,"  he  said,  turning  to  Mrs.  Den- 
nistoun  again.  '•'  I  couldn't  look  at  her.  I'm  an  unlikely 
brute  for  that  sort  of  thing,  but  if  I  had  looked  at  her  I 
should  have  cried.  I  daresay  you  don't  believe  me. 
Never  mind,  but  it's  true." 

"  I  do  believe  you,"  said  the  mother,  very  low. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  have  always 
said  for  a  mother-in-law  you  were  the  least  difficult  to 
get  on  with  I  ever  saw.  Do  you  remember  giving  me 
that  money  to  make  ducks  and  drakes  of?  It  was  aw- 
fully silly  of  you.  You  didn't  deserve  to  be  trusted 
with  money  to  throw  it  away  like  that,  but  still  I  have 
not  forgotten  it.  Well !  I  came  to  thank  you  for  yes- 
terday, Nell.  And  there  are  things,  you  know,  that  we 
must  talk  over.  You  never  gave  up  your  name.  That 
was  like  your  pluck.  But  you  will  have  to  change  it 
no\v.  It  was  indecent  of  me  to  have  myself  announced 
like  that  and  poor  old  St.  Serf  not  in  his  grave  yet.  But 
I  daresay  you  didn't  pay  any  attention.  You  are  Lady 
Sr.  Serf  now,  my  dear.  You  don't  mind,  I  know,  but  it's 
a  change  not  without  importance.  Well,  who  is  that 
fellow  behind  there,  standing  in  the  window  ?  I  think 
you  ought  to  present  him  to  me.  Or  I'll  present  him 
to  you  instead.  I  saw  him  in  the  theatre,  by  Jove ! 
with  that  fellow  Tatharn,  that  cousin  John  of  yours  that 
I  never  could  bear,  smirking  and  smiling  at  him  as  if  it 
were  his  son  !  'but  /  saw  the  boy  then  for  the  first  time. 
Nell,. I  tell  you  there  are  some  things  in  which  you  have 
taken  it  well  out  of  me " 

••  Mr.  Gomptou,"  she  said,  labouring  to  speak. 
"  Lord  St.  Serf.  Oh,  Phil,  Phil ! " 

"Ah, "he  said,  with  a  start,  "do  you  remember  at 
the  garden  at  that  poky  old  cottage  with  all  the 
flowers,  and  the  days  when  you  looked  out  for  wild 
Phil  Compton  that  all  the  world  warned  you  against  ? 
And  here  I  am  an  old  fogey,  without  either  wife  or 
child,  and  Tatham  taking  my  boy  about  and  Nell  never 
looking  me  in  the  face." 

29 


450  THE  MARRIAdK   OF  ELI  A' OR. 

Philip,  at  the  window  looking  out  at  nothing  through 
the  hideous-coloured  glass,  had  heard  every  word,  with 
wonder,  with  horror,  with  consternation,  with  dread- 
ful disappointment  and  sinking  of  the  heart.  For  in- 
deed he  had  a  high  ideal  of  a  father,  the  highest,  such 
as  fatherless  boys  form  in  their  ignorance.  And  every 
word  made  it  more  sure  that  this  was  his  father,  this 
man  who  had  so  caught  his  eyes  and  filled  him  with  sucli 
a  fever  of  interest.  But  to  hear  Phil  Compton  talk  had 
brought  the  boy's  soaring  imagination  down,  down  to 
the  dust.  He  had  not  been  prepared  for  anything  like 
this.  Some  tragic  rending  asunder  he  could  have 
believed  in,  some  wild  and  strange  mystery.  But  this 
man  of  careless  speech,  of  chaff  and  slang,  so  little 
noble,  so  little  serious,  so  far  from  tragic  !  The  dis- 
appointment had  been  too  sudden  and  dreadful  to 
leave  him  with  any  ears  for  those  tones  that  went  to 
his  mother's  heart.  He  had  no  pity  or  sense  of  the 
pathos  that  was  in  them.  He  stood  in  his  young  ab- 
solutism disgusted,  miserable.  This  man  his  fathei  ! 
— this  man !  so  talking,  so  thinking.  Young  Philip 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  group,  more  miserable  than 
words  could  say.  He  heard  some  movement  behind, 
but  he  was  too  sick  of  heart  to  think  what  it  was,  until 
suddenly  he  felt  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  most  un- 
willingly suffered  himself  to  be  turned  round  to  meet 
his  father's  eyes.  He  gave  one  glance  up  at  the  face, 
which  he  did  not  now  feel  was  worn  with  study  and 
care — which  now  that  he  saw  it  near  was  full  of  lines 
and  wrinkles  which  meant  something  else,  and  which 
even  the  emotion  in  it,  emotion  of  a  kind  which  Pippo 
did  not  understand,  hidden  by  a  laugh,  did  not  make 
more  prepossessing — and  then  he  stood  with  his  eyes 
cast  down,  not  caring  to  see  it  again. 

The  elder  Philip  Compton  had,  I  think,  though  he 
was,  as  he  said,  an  unlikely  subject  for  that  mood,  tears 
in  his  eyes — and  he  had  no  inclination  to  see  anything 
that  was  painful  in  the  face  of  his  son,  whose  look  he 
had  never  read,  whose  voice  he  had  never  heard,  till 
now.  He  held  the  boy  with  his  hands  on  his  shoulders, 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  451 

with  a  grasp  more  full  perhaps  of  the  tender  strain  of 
love  (though  he  did  not  know  him)  than  ever  he  had 
laid  upon  any  human  form  before.  The  boy's  looks 
were  not  only  satisfactory  to  him,  but  filled  his  own 
with  an  unaccustomed  spring  of  pride  and  delight 
— his  stature,  his  complexion,  his  features,  making  up 
as  it  were  the  most  wonderful  compliment,  the  utmost 
sweetness  of  flattery  that  he  had  ever  known.  For  the 
Loy  was  himself  over  again,  not  like  his  mother,  like 
the  unworthy  father  whom  he  had  never  seen.  It  took 
him  some  time  to  master  the  sudden  rush  of  this  emo- 
tion which  almost  overwhelmed  him  :  and  then  he  drew 
the  boy's  arm  through  his  own  and  led  him  back  to 
where  the  two  ladies  sat,  Elinor  still  too  much  agitated 
for  speech.  ;'  I  said  I'd  present  my  son  to  you,  Xell — 
if  you  wouldn't  present  him  to  me,"  he  said,  with  a 
break  in  his  voice  which  sounded  like  a  chuckle  to  that 
son's  angry  ears.  "  I  don't  know  what  you  call  the. fel- 
low— but  he's  big  enough  to  have  a  name  of  his  own, 
and  he's  Lomond  from  this  day." 

Pippo  did  not  know  what  was  meant  by  those  words  : 
but  he  drew  his  arm  from  his  father's  and  went  and 
stood  behind  Elinor's  chair,  forgetting  in  a  moment  all 
grievances  against  her,  taking  her  side  with  an  energy 
impossible  to  put  into  words,  clinging  to  his  mother  as 
he  had  done  when  he  was  a  little  child. 


CHAPTER  XLVHL 

IT  was  while  this  conversation  was  going  on  that 
John  Tatham,  anxious  and  troubled  about  many  things, 
knocked  at  the  door  in  Ebury  Street.  He  was  anxious 
to  know  how  the  explanations  had  got  accomplished, 
how  the  boy  took  it,  how  Elinor  had  borne  the  strain 
Mpon  her  of  such  a  revelation.  Well  as  he  knew  Elinor, 
he  still  thought,  as  is  generally  thought  in  circum- 
stances so  painful,  that  a  great  crisis,  a  great  mental 
effort,  would  make  her  ill.  He  wanted  to  know  how  she 


452  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

•was,  he  wanted  to  know  how  Pippo  had  borne  it,  what 
the  boy  thought.  It  had  glanced  across  him  that  young 
Philip  might  be  excited  by  so  wonderful  a  new  thing, 
and  form  some  false  impression  of  his  father  (whom 
doubtless  she  would  represent  under  the  best  light, 
taking  blame  upon  herself,  not  to  destroy  the  boy's 
ideal),  and  be  eager  to  know  him — which  was  a  thing, 
John  felt,  which  would  be  very  difficult  to  bear. 

The  door  was  opened  to  him  not  by  good  Mrs.  Jones, 
the  kind  landlady,  but  by  the  magnificent  Jones  him- 
self, who  rarely  appeared.  John  said  "  Mrs.  Compton  ?  " 
as  a  matter  of  course,  and  was  about  to  pass  in,  in  his 
usual  familiar  way.  But  something  in  the  man's  air 
made  him  pause.  He  looked  at  Jones  again,  who  was 
bursting  with  importance.  "Perhaps  she's  engaged  ?" 
he  said. 

"I  think,  sir,"  said  John,  "that  her  ladyship  is  en- 
gaged— his  lordship  is  with  her  ladyship  up-stairs." 

"  His — what  ?  "  John  Tatbam  cried. 

"  His  lordship,  Mr.  Tatham.  I  know,  sir,  as  the  title 
is  not  usually  assumed  till  after  the  funeral  ;  but  in  the 
very  .'ouse  where  her  ladyship  is  residing  for  the  mo- 
ment, there's  allowances  to  be  made.  Naturally  we're 
a  little  excited  over  it,  being,  if  I  may  make  so  bold  as 
to  say  so,  a  sort  of  'unable  friends,  and  long  patronized 
by  her  ladyship,  and  young  Lord  Lomond  too." 

"Young  Lord  Lomond  too!"  John  Tatham  stood 
for  a  moment  and  stared  at  Mr.  Jones  ;  and  then  he 
laughed  out,  and  turned  his  back  and  walked  away. 

Young  Lord  Lomond  too  !  The  boy  !  who  had  been 
more  like  John's  boy  than  anything  else,  but  now  tricked 
out  in  a  new  name,  a  new  position,  his  father's  heir. 
Oh,  yes,  it  was  John  himself  who  had  insisted  on  that 
only  a  few  days  ago  !  "  The  heir  to  a  peerage  can't  be 
hid."  It  was  he  that  had  quoted  this  as  an  aphorism 
worthy  of  a  social  sage.  But  when  the  moment  came 
and  the  boy  was  taken  from  him,  and  introduced  into 
that  other  sphere,  by  the  side  of  that  man  who  had  once 
been  the  cte-Honourable  Phil !  Good  heavens,  what 
changes  life  is  capable  of !  What  wrongs,  what  cruel- 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELIN0K.  453 

ties,  what  cuttings-off,  what  twists  and  alterations  of 
every  sane  thought  and  thing  !  John  Tatham  was  a 
seusible  man  as  well  as  an  eminent  lawyer,  and  knew 
that  between  Elinor's  son,  who  was  Phil  Cornptou's  son, 
and  himself,  there  was  no  external  link  at  all — nothing 
but  affection  and  habit,  and  the  ever-strengthening  link 
that  had  been  twisted  closer  and  closer  with  the  prog- 
ress of  these  years ;  but  nothing  real,  the  merest 
shadow  of  relationship,  a  cousin,  who  could  count  how 
often  removed?  And  it  was  he  who  had  insisted,  forced 
upon  Elinor  the  necessity  of  making  his  father  known 
to  Philip,  of  informing  him  of  his  real  position.  No- 
body had  interfered  in  this  respect  but  John.  He  had 
made  himself  a  weariness  to  her  by  insisting,  never  giv- 
ing over,  blaming  her  hourly  for  her  delay.  And  yet 
now,  when  the  thing  he  had  so  worked  for,  so  constant- 
ly urged,  was  done ! 

He  smiled  grimly  to  himself  as  he  walked  away  :  they 
were  all  together,  the  lordship  and  the  ladyship,  young 
Lord  Lomond  too  ! — and  Phil  Cornptqn,  whitewashed, 
a  peer  of  the  realm,  and  still,  the  scoundrel !  a  handsome 
fellow  enough  :  with  an  air  about  him,  a  man  who 
might  still  dazzle  a  youngster  unaccustomed  to  the 
world.  He  had  re-entered  the  bosom  of  his  family,  and 
doubtless  was  weeping  upon  Philip's  neck,  and  ban- 
dying about  that  name  of  "Nell"  which  had  always 
seemed  to  John  an  insult — an  insult  to  himself.  And 
in  that  moment  of  bitterness  John  did  not  know  how 
she  would  take  it,  what  effect  it  would  produce  upon 
her.  Perhaps  the  very  sight  of  the  fellow  who  had 
once  won  her  heart,  the  lover '  of  her  youth,  with 
whom  John  had  never  for  a  moment  put  himself  in 
competition,  notwithstanding  the  bitter  wonder  in  his 
heart  that  Elinor — Elinor  of  all  people  ! — could  ever 
have  loved  such  a  man.  Yet  she  had  loved  him,  and 
the  sight  of  him  again  after  so  many  years,  what  effect 
might  it  not  produce  ?  As  he  walked  away,  it  was  the 
idea  of  a  happy  family  that  came  into  John  Tatham's 
mind — mutual  forgiveness,  mutual  return  to  the  old 
traditions  which  are  the  most  endearing  of  all  ;  expan- 


454  THE  3iAkliIA(.;-iJ   OF 

sions,  confessions,  recollections,  raid  lives  of  reunion. 
Something  more  than  a  prodigal's  return,  the  return  of 
a  sinner  bringing  a  coronet  in  his  hand,  bringh". 
tinction,  a  place  and  position  enough  to  dazzle  any  boy, 
enough  to  make  a  woman  forgive.  And  -was  not  this 
what  John  wished  above  all  things,  every  advancement 
for  the  boy,  and  an  assured  place  in  the  world,  as  well  as 
every  happiness  that  might  be  possible — happiness ! 
yet  it  was  possible  she  might  think  it  so — for  Elinor  ? 
Yes,  this  was  what  he  had  wished  for,  been  ready  to 
make  any  sacrifice  to  secure.  In  the  sudden  shock  Mr. 
Tatham  thought  of  the  only  other  person  who  perhaps 
— yet  only  perhaps — might  feel  a  little  as  he  did — the 
mother,  Mrs.  Dennistouc,  upon  whom  he  thought  all 
this  would  come  like  a  thunder-clap,  not  knowing  that 
she  was  up-stairs  in  the  family  party,  among  the  lord- 
ships and  the  ladyship  too. 

He  went  home  and  into  his  handsome  library,  and 
shut  the  door  upon  himself,  to  have  it  out  there — or 
rather  to  occupy  himself  in  some  more  sensible  way 
and  shut  this  foolish  subject  out  of  his  mind.  It  oc- 
curred to  him,  however,  when  lie  sat  down  that  the  best 
thing  to  do  would  be  to  write  an  account  of  it  all  to 
Mrs.  Dennistoun,  who  doubtless  in  the  excitement 
would  have  a  long  time  to  wait  for  news  of  this 
change.  He  drew  his  blottiug-book  towards  him  with 
this  object,  and  opened  it,  and  dipped  his  pen  in  the 
ink,  and  wrote  "  My  dear  Aunt  ;  "  but  he  did  not  get 
much  further.  He  raised  his  head,  thinking  how  to 
introduce  his  narrative,  for  which  she  would  in  all  like- 
lihood be  wholly  unprepared,  and  in  so  doing  looked 
round  upon  his  book-cases,  on  one  shelf  of  which  the 
reflection  of  a  ray  of  afternoon  sunshine  caught  in  the 
old  Louis  Treize  mirror  over  the  mantelpiece  was  throw- 
ing a  shaft  of  light.  He  got  up  to  make  sure  that  it 
was  only  a  reflection,  nothing  that  would  harm  the 
binding  of  a  particular  volume  upon  which  he  sot  great 
store — though  of  course  he  knew  very  well  that  it  could 
only  be  a  reflection,  no  impertinent  reality  of  sunshine 
being  permitted  to  penetrate  there.  And  then  he  paused 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  455 

a  little  to  draw  his  hand  lovingly  over  the  line  of  choice 
books — very  choice — worth  a  little  fortune,  which  he 
laughed  at  himself  a  little  for  being  proud  of,  fully 
knowing  that  what  was  inside  them  (which  generally  is 
the  cream  of  a  book,  as  of  a  letter,  according  to  Tony 
Lumpkin)  was  in  many  cases  worth  nothing  at  all.  And 
then  John  went  and  stood  upon  the  hearth-rug,  and 
looked  round  him  upon  this -the  heart  of  his  domain. 
It  was  a  noble  library,  any  man  might  have  been  proud 
of  it.  He  asked  himself  whether  it  did  not  suit  him 
better,  with  all  the  comforts  and  luxuries  beyond  it,  than 
if  he  had  been  like  other  men,  with  an  entirely  differ- 
ent centre  of  life  up-stairs  in  the  empty  drawing-room, 
and  the  burden  upon  him  of  setting  out  children,  boys 
and  girls,  upon  the  world. 

When  a  man  asks  himself  this  question,  however  com- 
placent may  be  the  reply,  it  betrays  perhaps  a  doubt 
whether  the  assurance  he  has  is  so  very  sure  after  all  ; 
and  he  returned  to  his  letter  to  Mrs.  Dennistoun,  which 
would  be  quite  easy  to  write  if  it  were  only  once  well 
begun.  But  he  had  not  written  above  a  few  words, 
having  spent  some  time  in  his  previous  reflections,  when 
he  paused  again  at  the  sound  of  a  tumultuous  summons 
at  the  street-door.  As  may  be  well  supposed,  his  ser- 
vant took  more  time  than  usual  to  answer  it,  resenting 
a  noise  so  out  of  character  with  the  house,  during  which 
John  listened  half-angrily,  fearing,  yet  wishing  for,  a 
diversion.  And  then  his  own  door  burst  open,  not,  I 
need  not  say,  by  any  intervention  of  legitimate  hands, 
but  by  the  sudden  rush  of  Philip,  who  seemed  to  come 
in  in  a  whirl  of  long  limbs  and  eager  eyes,  flinging 
himself  into  a  chair  and  fixing  his  gaze  across  the  cor- 
ner of  the  table  upon  his  astonished  yet  expectant 
friend.  "  Oh,  Uncle  John  !  "  the  boy  cried,  and  had  not 
breath  to  sayany  more. 

John  put  forth  his  hand  across  the  table,  and  grasped 
the  young  flexible  warm  hand  that  wanted  something 
to  hold.  "Well,  my  boy,"  he  said. 

"I  suppose  you  know."  said  Philip.  "I  have  nothing 
to  tell  you,  though  it  is  all  so  strange  to  me." 


456  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

"I  know — nothing  about  what  interests  me  most  at 
present — yourself,  Pippo,  and  what  has  happened  to 
you." 

John  had  always  made  a  great  stand  against  that  par- 
ticular name,  but  several  times  had  used  it  of  late,  not 
knowing  why. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  thought  of  me  last  night," 
said  the  boy,  "  I  was  so  miserable.  May  I  tell  you 
everything,  Uncle  John  ?  " 

What  balm  that  question  was  !  He  clasped  Pippo's 
hand  in  his  own,  but  scarcely  could  answer  to  bid  him 
go  on. 

"  It  was  unnecessary,  all  she  wanted  to  tell  me.  I 
fought  it  off  all  the  morning.  I  was  there  yesterday  in 
the  court  and  heard  it  all." 

"  In  the  court !     At  the  trial  ?  " 

"I  had  no  meaning  in  it,"  said  Philip.  "I  went  by 
chance,  as  people  say,  because  the  Marshalls  had  not 
turned  up.  I  got  Simmons  to  get  me  into  the  court. 
I  had  always  wanted  to  see  a  trial.  And  there  I  saw 
my  mother  stand  up — my  mother,  that  I  never  could 
bear  the  wind  to  blow  on,  standing  up  there  alone  with 
all  these  people  staring  at  her  to  be  tried — for  her  life." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Philip,''  said  John  Tatham,  drop- 
ping his  hand  ;  "  tried  !  she  was  only  a  witness.  And 
she  was  not  alone.  I  was  there  to  take  care  of  her." 

"I  saw  you— but  what  was  that?  She  was  alone  all 
the  same  ;  and  for  me,  it  was  she  who  was  on  her  trial. 
What  did  I  know  about  any  other  ?  I  heard  it,  every 
word." 

"  Poor  boy  ! " 

"  So  what  was  the  use  of  making  herself  miserable 
to  tell  me  ?  She  tried  to  all  this  morning,  and  I  fought 
it  off.  I  was  miserable  enough.  WThy  should  I  be 
made  more  miserable  to  hear  her  perhaps  excusing  her- 
self to  me  ?  But  at  last  she  had  driven  me  into  a  cor- 
ner, angry  as  I  was — "Uncle  John,  I  was  angry,  fiuious, 
with  my  mother — fancy  !  with  my  mother.' 

John  did  not  say  anything,  but  he  nodded  his  head 
in  assent.  How  well  he  understood  it  all  ! 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  457 

"And  just  then,  at  that  moment,  he  came.  I  am  an- 
gry with  her  no  more.  I  know  whatever  happened 
she  was  right.  Angry  with  her,  my  poor  dear,  dearest 
mother  !  Whatever  happened  she  was  right.  It  was 
best  that  she  should  not  tell  me.  I  am  on  her  side  all 
through — all  through  !  Do  you  hear  me,  Uncle  John  ! 
I  have  seen  you  look  as  if  you  blamed  her.  Don't  again 
while  I  am  there.  Whatever  she  has  done  it  has  been 
the  right  thing  all  through  !  " 

"  Pippo,"  said  John,  with  a  little  quivering  about  the 
mouth,  "give  me  your  hand  again,  old  fellow,  you're 
my  own  boy." 

"Nobody  shall  so  much  as  look  as  if  they  blamed 
her,"  cried  the  boy,  "  while  I  am  alive  !  " 

Oh,  how  near  he  was  to  crying,  and  how  resolute  not 
to  break  down,  though  something  got  into  his  throat 
and  almost  choked  him,  and  his  eyes  were  so  full  that 
it  was  a  miracle  they  did  not  brim  over.  Excitement, 
distress,  pain,  the  first  touch  of  human  misery  he  had 
ever  known  almost  overmastered  Philip.  He  got  up 
and  walked  about  the  room,  and  talked  and  talked.  He 
who  had  never  concealed  anything,  who  had  never  had 
anything  to  conceal.  And  for  four-and-twenty  hours 
he  had  been  silent  with  a  great  secret  upon  his  soul. 
John  was  too  wise  to  check  the  outpouring.  He  lis- 
tened to  everything,  assented,  soothed,  imperceptibly 
led  him  to  gentler  thoughts. 

"  And  what  does  he  mean,"  cried  the  boy  at  last, 
"with  his  new  name?  I  shall  have  no  name  but  my 
own,  the  one  my  mother  gave  me.  I  am  Philip  Comp- 
ton,  and  nothing  else.  What  right  has  he,  the  first  time 
he  ever  saw  me,  to  put  upon  me  another  name  ?  " 

"  What  name  ?  " 

"He  called  me  Lomond — or  something  like  that," 
said  young  Philip  :  and  then  there  came  a  sort  of  still- 
ness over  his  excitement,  a  lull  in  the  storm.  Some 
vague  idea  what  it  meant  came  all  at  once  into  the  boy's 
mind  :  and  a  thrill  of  curiosity,  of  another  kind  of  ex- 
citement, of  rising  thoughts  which  he  did  not  hardly 
understand,  struggled  up  through  the  other  zone  of 


458  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

passion.  He  was  half  ashamed,  having  just  poured 
forth  all  his  feelings,  to  show  that  there  was  something 
else,  something  that  was  no  longer  indignation,  nor 
anger,  nor  the  shock  of  discovery,  something  that  had 
a  tremor  perhaps  of  pleasure  in  it,  behind.  But  John 
was  far  too  experienced  a  man  not  to  read  the  boy 
through  and  through.  He  liked  him  better  in  the  first 
phase,  but  this  was  natural  too. 

"  It  happens  very  strangely,"  he  said,  "that  all  these 
things  should  come  upon  you  at  once  :  but  it  is  well 
you  should  know  now  all  about  it.  Lomond  is  the 
second  title  of  the  Comptons,  Earls  of  St.  Serf.  Haven't 
I  heard  you  ask  what  Comptons  you  belonged  to,  Philip? 
It  has  all  happened  within  a  day  or  two.  Your  father 
was  only  Philip  Compton  yesterday  at  the  trial,  and  a 
poor  man.  Now  he  is  Lord  St.  Serf,  if  not  rich,  at  least 
no  longer  poor.  Everything  has  changed  for  you — your 
position,  your  importance  in  the  world.  The  last  Lord 
Lomond  bore  the  name  creditably  enough.  I  hope  you 
will  make  it  shine."  He  took  the  boy  by  the  hand  and 
grasped  it  heartily  again.  "I  am  thankful  for  it,"  said 
John.  "  I  would  rather  you  were  Lord  Lomond 
than " 

"  What  !  Uncle  John  ?  " 

"  Steady,  boy.  I  was  going  to  say  Philip  Compton's 
son  ;  but  Lord  St.  Serf  is  another  man." 

There  was  a  long  pause  in  the  room  where  John  Tat- 
ham's  life  was  centred  among  his  books.  He  had  so 
much  to  do  with  all  this  business,  and  yet  so  little.  It 
would  pass  away  with  all  its  tumults,  and  he  after  being 
absorbed  by  it  for  a  moment  would  be  left  alone  to  his 
own  thoughts  and  his  own  unbroken  line  of  existence. 
So  much  the  better !  It  is  not  good  for  any  man  to  be 
swept  up  and  put  down  again  at  the  will  of  others  in 
mat  tors  in  which  he  has  no  share.  As  for  Philip,  he 
was  silent  chiefly  to  realise  this  great  thing  that  had 
come  upon  him.  He,  Lord  Lomond,  a  peer's  son,  who 
was  only  Pippo  of  Lakeside  like  any  other  lad  -in  the 
parish,  and  not  half  so  important  at  school  as  Musgrave, 
who  did  not  get  that  scholarship.  What  the  sehool 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  -15.? 

would  say  !  the  tempest  that  would  arise  !  They  would 
ask  a  holiday,  aud  the  head  master  would  grant  it. 
Compton  a  lord !  Philip  could  hear  the  roar  aud  rus- 
tle among  the  boys,  the  scornful  incredulity,  the  assev- 
erations of  those  who  knew  it  was  true.  And  a  flush 
that  was  pleasure  had  come  over  his  musing  face.  It 
would  have  been  strange  if  in  the  wonder  of  it  there 
had  not  been  some  pleasure  too. 

He  had  begun  to  tolerate  his  father  before  many  days 
were  over,  to  cease  to  be  indignant  and  angry  that  he 
was  not  the  ideal  father  of  his  dreams.  That  was  not 
Lord  St.  Serf's  fault,  who  was  not  at  all  aware  of  his 
son's  dreams,  and  had  never  had  an  ideal  in  his  life. 
But  John  Tatham  was  right  in  saying  that  Lord  St. 
Serf  was  another  man.  The  shock  of  a  new  responsibil- 
ity, of  a  position  to  occupy  and  duties  to  fulfil,  were 
things  that  might  not  hare  much  moved  the  dis- 
Houourable  Phil  two  years  before.  But  he  was  fifty, 
and  beginning  to  feel  himself  an  old  fogey,  as  he  con- 
fessed. And  his  son  overawed  Lord  St.  Serf.  His 
sou,  who  was  so  like  him,  yet  had  the  mother's  quick, 
impetuous  eyes,  so  rapid  to  see  through  everything,  so 
disdainful  of  folly,  so  keen  in  perception.  He  was 
afraid  to  bring  upon  himself  one  of  those  lightning 
flashes  from  the  eyes  of  his  boy,  and  doubly  afraid  to 
introduce  his  son  anywhere,  to  show  him  anything  that 
might  bring  upon  him  the  reproach  of  doing  harm  to 
Pippo.  His  house,  which  had  been  very  decent  and 
orderly  in  the  late  Lord  St.  Serf's  time,  became  almost 
prim  in  the  terror  Phil  had  lest  they  should  say  that  it 
was  bad  for  the  boy. 

As  for  Lady  St.  Serf,  it  was  popularly  reported  that 
the  reason  why  she  almost  invariably  lived  in  the 
country  was  her  health,  which  kept  her  out  of  society 
— a  report,  I  need  not  say,  absolutely  rejected  by 
society  itself,  which  knew  all  the  circumstances  better 
than  you  or  I  do  :  but  which  sufficed  for  the  outsiders 
who  knew  nothing.  When  Elinor  did  appear  upon 
great  occasions,  which  she  consented  to  do,  her  matured 
beauty  gave  the  fullest  contradiction  to  the  pretext  on 


460  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR. 

which  she  continued  to  live  her  own  life.  But  old 
Lord  St.  Serf,  who  got  old  so  long  before  he  need  to 
have  done,  with  perhaps  the  same  sort  of  constitutional 
weakness  which  had  carried  off  all  his  brothers  before 
their  time,  or  perhaps  because  he  had  too  much  abused 
a  constitution  which  was  not  weak — grew  more  and  more 
fond  in  his  latter  days  of  the  country  too,  and  kept  ap- 
pearing at  Lakeside  so  often  that  at  last  the  ladies  re- 
moved much  nearer  town,  to  the  country-house  of  the 
St.  Serfs,  which  had  not  been  occupied  for  ages,  where 
they  presented  at  last  the  appearance  of  a  united  fam- 
ily ;  and  where  "  Lomond  "  (who  would  have  thought 
it  very  strange  now  to  be  addressed  by  any  other 
name)  brought  his  friends,  and  was  not  ill-pleased  to 
hear  his  father  discourse,  in  a  way  which  sometimes 
still  offended  the  home-bred  Pippo,  but  which  the  other 
young  men  found  very  amusing.  It  was  not  in  the  way 
of  morals,  however,  that  Lord  St.  Serf  ever  offended. 
The  fear  of  Elinor  kept  him  as  blameless  as  any  good- 
natured  preacher  of  the  endless  theme,  that  all  is  van- 
ity, could  do. 

These  family  arrangements,  however,  and  the  modi- 
fied happiness  obtained  by  their  means,  were  still  all 
in  the  future,  when  John  Tatham,  a  little  afraid  of  the 
encounter,  yet  anxious  to  have  it  over,  went  to  Ebury 
Street  the  day  after  these  occurrences,  to  see  Elinor  for 
the  first  time  under  her  new  character  as  Lady  St.  Serf. 
He  found  her  in  a  languor  and  exhaustion  much  un- 
like Elinor,  doing  nothing,  not  even  a  book  near,  lying 
back  in  her  chair,  fallen  upon  herself,  as  the  French 
say.  Some  of  those  words  that  mean  nothing  passed 
between  them,  and  then  she  said,  "John,  did  Pippo 
tell  you  that  he  had  been  there  ?  " 

He  nodded  his  head,  finding  nothing  to  say. 

"  Without  any  warning,  to  see  his  mother  stand  up 
before  all  the  world  to  be  tried — for  her  life." 

"  Elinor,"  said  John,  "  you  are  as  fantastic  as  the 
boy." 

"  I  was — being  tried  for  my  life — before  him  as  the 
judge.  And  he  has  acquitted  me  ;  but,  oh,  I  wonder,  I 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  ELINOR.  461 

wonder  if  he  would  have  done  so  had  he  known  all  that 
I  know  ?  " 

"  I  do  so,"  said  John,  "perhaps  a  little  more  used  to 
the  laws  of  evidence  than  Pippo." 

"  Ah,  you  !  "  she  said,  giving  him  her  hand,  with  a 
look  which  John  did  not  know  how  to  take,  whether  as 
the  fullest  expression  of  trust,  or  an  affectionate  dis- 
dain of  the  man  in  whose  partial  judgment  no  justice 
was.  And  then  she  asked  a  question  which  threw  per- 
haps the  greatest  perplexity  he  had  ever  known  into 
John  Tatham's  life.  "  When  you  tell  a  fact — that  is 
true :  with  the  intention  to  deceive  :  John,  you  that 
know  the  laws  of  evidence,  is  that  a  lie  ?  " 


THE    END. 


We  are  the  Sole  Publishers  of  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcoa'a  Books 

The  Poetical  and  Prose  Works  of 

ELLA    WHEELER  WILCOX 

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MAURINE 

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AN  ERRING  WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

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"Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  has  impressed  many  thousands  of 
people  with  the  extreme  beauty  of  her  philosophy  and  the 
exceeding  usefulness  of  her  point  of  view."  —  Boston  Globe. 

"Mrs.  Wilcox  stands  at  the  head  of  feminine  writers,  and 
her  verses  and  essays  are  more  widely  copied  and  read  than 
those  of  any  other   American  literary  woman."  —  New  York 
World.     "Power  and  pathos  characterize   this   magnificent 
poem.   A  deep  understanding  of  life  and  an  intense  sympathy 
are  beautifully  expressed."  —  Chicago  Tribune. 
Presentation  Edition,  12mo,  light  brown  cloth  ..............  $  1.00 

/>e  Luxe  Edition,  white  vellum,  gold  top  ..................  1.50 

MEN,  WOMEN  AND  EMOTIONS;   'J 

A  skilful  analysis  of  social  habits,  customs,  and  follies.  A 
common-sense  view  of  life  from  its  varied  standpoints,  .  .  .  full 
of  sage  advice. 

"These  essays  tend  to  meet  difficulties  that  arise  in  almost 
every  life.    .  .  .  Full  of  sound  and  helpful  admonition,  and  is 

sure  to  assist  in  smoothing  the  rough  ways  of  life  wherever  it 

be  read  and  heeded."—  Pittsburg  Times. 

12mo,  heavy  enameled  paper  ................................  $0.50 

Presentation  Edition,  dark  brown  cloth  ....................  1.00 


BEAUTIFUL  LAND  OF  NOD. 

A  collection  of  poems,  songs,  stories,  and  allegories  dealing 
with  child  life.  The  work  is  profusely  illustrated  with  dainty 
line  engravings  and  photographs  from  life. 

"The  delight  of  the  nursery;  the  foremost  baby's  book  in 
the  world."  —  N.  O.  Picayune. 
Quarto,  sage  green  cloth  .....................................  $1.00 


W.  B.  CONKEY  COMPANY, 


Hammond,  Indiana 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


»0  LD4JRL 

^        -Y2 

MAY  l  7  J973 


Form  L9-Series  444 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000128254     0 


